Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome
by Ihateseatbelts
Summary: Some call him the next Dumbledore. Others, a thrall of Grindelwald. Not even Harry himself is sure of where he belongs, until one book leads him on the path to discovering his ill-fated parents' efforts to conceal a dangerously magical secret. In the meantime, Chief-wizard Malfoy has his eyes set on Hogwarts, and only Sir Albus stands in his way. Massive!Wizarding World, No!BWL.
1. Harry Has A Visitor

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **The Matron reminisces, an assistant gets a telling-off, and a guest is treated to a circus act.

* * *

_Am I alone in my estimation of war - or all violence, really - as a wholly distasteful occurrence?_

_I suppose it needn't be mentioned for most, though I hail from a family of thieves, merchants and killers. It is blasphemy to utter such words in Cornwall and its satellites, surely, for though we Potters are small in number, our few dozen wands still lead hundreds of staves to yet uncharted territories._

_All in the name of death and taxes._

_We are a "kind, just old clan", I often hear. Humanitarians, progressives, revolutionaries, et cetera. It might have been true of my ancestors, but what of us? To give away a thousand Galleons means nothing to a man who bathes in it._

_My Uncle Charlus speaks of the conflict in the most blithe terms, in true Potter fashion. If life is a game to wanded wizards, then our family plays on Sunday afternoons. My sister, my parents, even cousin Wallace - they show no comprehension of the gravity of our situation. _

_No. That's not it; they don't get the joke. I, the black sheep, am the most Potter of us all! How hilarious it is that we fight over the Muggles yet kill ourselves twice as quickly? I have laughed to myself often, that is, up until last night. I heard the High Warlock Grindelwald speak for the first time._

~ Robin G Potter, a letter to Calliope Trent (3 May 1902)

* * *

**Chapter One - Harry Has A Visitor**

For all that could be said about the town of Oakwood, deprived would probably be the last word to surface in the minds of most. The area was situated among several affluent suburbs in the northernmost borough of London, and a sizeable portion of its denizens were either successful local business owners or professionals who commuted into the City.

It enjoyed a relatively relaxed pace compared to the congested roads and perpetual rush hour along Westminster's pavements, and violent crime was almost non-existent. Unaccompanied by guardians, children would freely ride their bicycles down the scarcely tyre-marked tarmac, while others would gleefully destroy their parents' pride and joy by playing football on their well-manicured front lawns. On a typical sunny midsummer's afternoon, the air would carry the enticing aroma of barbecue smoke tempered by freshly cut grass and soapy Land Rovers. Today was no exception. It was guaranteed to lift anyone and everyone's spirits – save for a few.

Miss Charlotte Meacham was well-regarded (she would say) in the community as the matron of Oakwood's local children's home: St Cecilia's Refuge for Unfortunate Youths. It was an ancient, ivy-covered cobblestone eyesore that looked terribly out of place in a neighbourhood composed of flawless brick-and-mortar, semi-detached masterpieces. She was among the last of the old guard; a stalwart defender of traditional child-rearing, standing vigilant against a vicious smear campaign that threatened the once sacred English mantra of 'spare the rod, spoil the child'.

Despite her questionable methods, however, Miss Meacham's heart wasn't made of stone (she would also say). In fact, she often cursed her abundance of love for the children in her care: an occupational hazard to be sure. Time after time she had bonded with a child, only for them to be promptly wrenched from the matron's embrace. Such a tragedy usually did little to dampen her resolve – it was all too common and she had to be strong for the rest of the brood – but today was most unusual.

For the past three-and-a-half years, she had been in semi-regular correspondence with a rather odd fellow. It strictly concerned business, of course. The man's name was Elphias Doge, and his letters were even more peculiar than his name would indicate. Apparently, he was a teacher at a boarding school all the way up in Scotland, and had been for over sixty years. Miss Meacham was mildly impressed: what energy the man must have had to keep up in such a hormone-infested environment for so long… that being said, she had dealt more than well in looking after a house of trying infants for several decades (she would say, just once more).

According to Doge, the school had been interested in a child placed in her custody for some time. His mother and father had both attended the prestigious and exclusive institution, and it was confirmed that the boy in question exhibited the same potential. That was especially peculiar. In the seven years that he had stayed at St Cecilia's, not one person had come to _visit_, let alone propose to adopt little Harry James Potter.

Harry was not an unpleasant boy at all. Indeed, he was quite the opposite in Miss Meacham's opinion. He was certainly polite, generally well-liked by the other children, quite brilliant… somewhat eccentric, but that could easily be explained by his level of intelligence. He was definitely well-behaved (maybe _usually _would be more appropriate) but, for whatever reason, did have his occasional _moments._

The first was a week after he had been brought in by the authorities. Harry and little Alice Presley were playing with toy planes in the nursery. They were supposed to be under the attentive eye of Holly, one of the junior carers, but she'd apparently gone on yet another toilet break upon Miss Meacham's entrance after making the house rounds. She'd given her a right tongue-lashing after that stunt. But what she had walked in on was even more outrageous.

One of the toy planes was _flying in the air_. Like one of those fighter planes in the films: it made twists; turns; loop-de-loops and all the rest. While Harry kept shouting, **"ZOOM! ZOOM!" **little Alice's eyes were wide in wonder as she laughed and clapped as only a toddler could. Had Miss Meacham not remembered personally removing the batteries from all nursery toys as well as keeping the replacements in her office, Holly would've been straight out on her hide that day.

It must have been a freak incident, she decided. The things scientists were coming up with these days, like solar power – surely the plane was powered by something like that? But she'd seen the determination in the boy's eyes, that confident smile. It was almost as if he were guiding the plane with his words! She pushed such silly musings to the back of her mind… until it happened again.

One day it was yellow polka-dots on the floor of the room he shared with Philip Campbell and Gregory Hines, the next day he'd be followed by a group of frogs hopping behind him in crocodile fashion. When he was asked where the frogs came from Harry replied, "I like frogs."

Indeed.

One particularly nasty _moment _took place during the Christmas Eve dinner last year, when the elder children staged a mutiny over the inclusion of broccoli to the menu. Harry triumphantly bellowed, "This broccoli is _poo_! Broccoli _is poo_!" The children cheered in chorus. Then they stopped for a moment. Some screamed, others laughed, and a few of the younger ones cried. But after a while, a few of the elder kids resumed their cheering.

Meanwhile, Miss Meacham and the carers sat dumbfounded. The offensive odour was an immediate give-away – they couldn't tear their eyes off of the contents of Harry's plate. Two of the staff resigned after that, one nurse and a carer. Miss Meacham sent Harry to the naughty room; not as a punishment, but simply because she didn't know what else to do. Amidst the loud protests of the small gang of children stationed outside, notably the unmistakeable ratchy tone of Greg's shouting "Free Potter! Free Potter", she silently declared defeat and retreated to her office.

_What was this boy_, she wondered. She couldn't explain how these things kept happening around and to him. Sofas changing colour three times a day, hot dogs being set ablaze, his appearance in closets that were surely locked from the outside… the boy must have been an aspiring stage magician of some sort.

_"Thou shalt not suffer a __**witch **__to live," _the words of a Sister at her old convent school echoed in her head, from an incident where she had been caught with a copy of _The Hobbit _during a French lesson.

There hadn't been an incident after Christmas, she noted, which was unsettling: Harry blowing something up happened at least once every other month.

But what exactly did this school want with him? Sure, his parents went but it was a full country away from what he was used to. What if he got nervous and these... _moments _escalated? Or... maybe that was why they were interested in him. Doge could work for the government, and this boarding school business would be an entire ruse to capture Harry! "Well, at least he would get the help he needs," she mused.

And with that thought, Miss Meacham lost all apprehension regarding Mr Doge's imminent visit. It was in Harry's best interests that he was looked after by guardians who fully understood the nature of his condition. It had nothing to do with preserving her sanity or even her soul from the... _freak _nature of these misadventures. Although, by the time the supposed teacher appeared on their end of the street, Miss Meacham's eyes had been glued to the orphanage's top window for a full half-hour.

The toll of the relic-like door bell and the irregular pitter-patter of bare feet on top of creaky old oaken stairs marked Elphias Doge's arrival, only to be introduced by Holly. Miss Meacham groaned loudly, cradling her face in her hands while waiting for her assistant to take an age in guiding her guest to the office.

"… but either way, that's why it's ill-advised to go shopping for traditional Kyrgyz candles in Finchley. None of them are even _fair trade_! Mr Doge, I tell you – oh!" Holly's inane anti-establishment tirade was abruptly terminated by a groove between the floorboards, stubbing her toe.

"_Holly!_" Miss Meacham shrieked, her washed-out blue eyes as wide as saucepans, while her frizzy grey ponytail whipped about behind her. "What have I told you about traipsing around without shoes in the home, _especially _when we have guests? Serves you right, you dozy mare... now _where _have you put Mr Doge?"

"Right here, madam! Right here!" a keen, wheezy voice supplied from behind the gangly younger woman in front of the office door. Out popped Mr Doge, a shrivelled old man with white, wispy hair that looked like it was desperately trying to escape. All in all, it made him somewhat resemble a dandelion clock. He'd apparently tried to remedy this by affixing a moth-eaten fez on top of his head which, in Miss Meacham's opinion, clashed horribly with the maroon three-piece suit the man was wearing. The woman suppressed a chuckle – why on earth had she been nervous?

"Ah, Mr Doge, please do make yourself comfortable!" Miss Meecham said brightly, gesturing to the chair in front of her wide beech desk.

"Please madam, I insist that you call me Elphias. We have been writing to each other for _far _too long to warrant such formalities," Mr Doge said with a wolfish grin, causing the elderly woman in front of him to shuffle uncomfortably.

"Of course," she replied tersely. "Holly, would you please bring young Harry to the office? Make it quick, dear. And _please_ get yourself some shoes on the way!"

"But Miss Meacham, I'm trying to stay in sync with the _aura _of the home. You should-" Holly shut up upon seeing the warning look on her superior's face. She scurried off soon after, presumably to do exactly as she was asked.

"So, _Charlotte-"_

_"Miss Meacham_."

"Miss Meacham," Doge sheepishly corrected himself, glancing at the door behind him. "How has young Harry been keeping these past few weeks since I wrote last?"

"There's not much to report, I'm afraid," said Miss Meacham, leaning back in her recliner. "He's been bugging us for more time to go to the library, but that's hardly news. I'm not sure where he gets the time to get through all the books we have, let alone outside."

"I see," Doge murmured, a thoughtful look on his face before he added, "you know, his mother was just like that. Very studious, that woman. Destined for high places..." he trailed off, looking off into the distance at nothing in particular.

It then dawned on Miss Meacham that despite all the communication she'd had with Doge, the subject of Harry's parents was seldom addressed. She wouldn't dare to pry into such delicate information; Harry was a ward of the state, after all. But that was besides the point, at the moment. Miss Meacham finally had this man in front of her. He could no longer hide behind the delivery time of the mail to evade her questions. She immediately went onto the offensive.

"What are you wanting with Harry, anyway? Apart from the fact that his parents attended your school, I mean. You say it's really exclusive, but as far as I can remember, Harry's only taken his 11-plus exams for the local grammar school. He's very intelligent, but no-one's ever made a big fuss over it."

"Well, er, you see," Doge started, looking up at Miss Meacham's steely gaze. He opened and closed his mouth several times before sitting straight up. "It's an interesting case. Due to the rarity of our, ahem, incredibly successful method of educating the youth in this country, the Education... Secretary allows schools – like ours – privileged access to the academic records of highly performing students. We've been monitoring Harry's progress since he started in Reception, and well... He certainly possesses the innate qualities that we regard as essential criteria for our students."

"Such as?" Miss Meacham asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Well, erm, for one... _strong willpower,"_ said Doge, before clearing his throat rather loudly upon seeing the matron's eyeballs almost drop from their sockets. "Oh, there are others of course! Creativity, bags of it, curiosity, things like that, of course. It's all very clear from Harry's record that he fits the bill perfectly."

"Mmhmm," Miss Meacham hummed with sceptical eyes focused on the unimposing Doge, who even seemed to be cowering a little. He soon found his rescuer in Holly, who had stomped her way back into the office, the plodding of muddy Wellington boots punctuating her every step. Shortly after meeting the elder woman's withering glare, she stepped to the side, revealing a child wearing a faintly amused expression on his face.

"Ah, Harry," Miss Meacham greeted the boy, beckoning him in with a wave and a smile. "Do remember your manners, now. This is Mr Doge, he's here to see you."

"Me? Sorry," the boy quickly apologised after seeing Miss Meacham's glare return with a vengeance. He turned to the wizened man seated in front of her.

"Good afternoon, Mr Doge," Harry said gaily, "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Well _hello_, Harry! It's nice to finally meet you too! My, Charlotte," Doge gushed, ignoring the mutinous growl that threatened to escape the matron's pursed lips. "You've raised him well, indeed! I must say – the face, the hair, it's almost all James! You do take after your father, my boy." Harry's shoulders straightened at hearing someone mention his father, an unreadable look written across his visage.

"Really? I -"

"Now I'm sure you both have a _lot _to talk about," said Miss Meacham, rising from her chair and scuttling off towards the doorway, ushering Holly out with her, "so don't let us disturb you, by any means! Harry dear, why don't you take a seat on my chair?"

Harry's mouth fell agape. "The _Boss Throne_?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, my _chair,_ Harry," Miss Meacham hissed, laughing weakly as Doge's gaze remained fixed to the recliner in front of him. She slammed the door behind her, and her muffled voice could be heard tearing into a very meek Holly about the importance of proper attire in front of guests.

* * *

Doge watched as the boy cautiously approached the apparently hallowed 'throne'. Harry ran a hand across a leather arm before turning and sinking into the chair's mass.

"Harry James Potter," breathed Doge, looking at the boy in reverence. Harry squirmed a little. "To think I'm sitting before the _last Potter." _The child had a lightly tanned complexion, a strong chin and the tell-tale scruffy black mane that had adorned the heads of several Potter men before him. _So much like James,_ the old man reminisced, before looking deeply into Harry's emerald-green eyes.

"You've got your mother's eyes, Harry," Elphias whispered with a faint smile. "Her nose, somewhat. But her eyes, too – just as sharp, just as warm! Forgive me," he wheezed, noting the boy's perplexed stare. "Got carried away with old times, a symptom of age, unfortunately. Please, allow me to introduce myself properly. My name, Harry, is Elphias Cassius Doge, and I teach at a very special school -"

"Hogwarts?" Harry said. Doge did a double take.

"My word, boy, do you... have the _Sight_?" asked Doge.

"Er, well, I can't see without my glasses if that's what you mean," said Harry, tapping the frame of his spectacles.

"Oh no, you misunderstand me, Harry," said Doge, chuckling and shaking his head as he leaned over the table. "I meant to ask: how do you know about Hogwarts?"

"Miss Meacham talks about you all the time."

"She _does_?" inquired Doge, inwardly cursing for the obvious hope his voice probably betrayed.

"Yep," said Harry, nodding with enthusiasm. "All the time! Just a couple of weeks ago, she was talking to Miss Browne. It went something like, 'It's another bloody letter from Hogwarts again. Honestly, Mavis, what _School of Gifted Children _gives itself a name like that? The man's a schlub.' "

"A _schlub?" _Doge said, his heart plummeting. He looked up at the ceiling, withdrawing a deep breath. "Well, I suppose nothing can be done.

"Anyway, let's get back on track. Yes Harry, I teach at Hogwarts, and it is indeed a school for gifted children. Very gifted children. It serves to develop a talent you have, one that we happen to share. It's a _really_ rare talent, my boy, and Hogwarts teaches it better than any other school in the country, if not the world."

Harry was on the edge of his seat, his eyes indicating that his imagination was doing overtime.

"What do they teach, Mr Doge?"

_Works every time._

Doge grinned. "Mr Potter, my institution's full, official name is Hogwarts School of _Witchcraft and Wizardry. _We're going to teach you all about magic, my boy."

"You teach magic?" asked Harry after a few moments of silence. Doge nodded giddily.

Harry smiled. "I see. So that's what it is that I do."

Doge, who had eventually lost interest and was contemplating whether to chill the ultramarine or violet elf-wine for dinner, perked up immediately after Harry's statement.

"Harry... what _is _it that you can do?"

"Let's see... I can change the colours of things, make things fly, make marbles from pebbles, that's one of my favourites... I trained some frogs and squirrels to bring me stuff... kind of. But yeah, lots of stuff, I guess. Whenever I want."

"Ah, right, I – wait." Doge stopped himself, peering at Harry. "_W__henever _you want?"

"Uh-huh!" Harry launched himself out of the recliner. "I'll _show_ you my best trick, though. I've been really working on it for the past few months."

"Ah, er... if you're sure, Harry," said Doge, nodding lamely.

He knew he was out of his depth here. Condoning intentional underage sorcery in his presence, all without a wand? _Minerva would skin me alive for this,_ he thought, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Well, Harry, whenever you're ready."

The boy in question walked back to the center of the small office, behind the chair Doge sat on. The old teacher swivelled round, the anticipation eating away at his gut. Why he was so excited was beyond him. Then again, this was the _last Potter_, and if the rumours were true...

Harry suddenly fell backwards, unrestrained and assured as if he were to rest on some soft mattress lying above the otherwise solid and _very_ crooked flooring.

Doge's heart missed a beat as he lunged towards the concussion-bound child, brandishing a short, light-coloured wooden stick, though what he saw next firmly stopped him in his tracks. As soon as he should have been about to hit the floor, Harry slowly floated forwards, and rose up to half the height of the ceiling. His arms and legs idly flailed about as his body rotated. But what surprised Doge more than anything was the serene look of contentment in Harry's eyes once he floated back to the floor, one foot after the other.

"Well," the old man said through a gulp, removing his hat and wiping his brow with a purple handkerchief, "that certainly was... something?" As Doge looked up, empty space now occupied the spot where the boy had stood only a moment before.

"I didn't say I was done, sir," said Harry with a hearty chuckle. Doge spun around, only to find Harry seated in the familiar recliner once more.

"Merlin's beard... Harry, eleven-year-old children shouldn't be capable of that kind of control over their magic!"

Harry knit his brow. "Well, sir - I _am _ten. My birthday's next week so maybe it'll be harder then? If it's a problem..."

"No, my boy! Not at all," said Doge with a wave of his hand. "I was simply applauding your aptitude being so far ahead of the curve. It really is a rare thing, you see. But then again, with your parentage, maybe it should have been less surprising!"

Doge went quiet as he regarded Harry's pensive expression. He spoke up again, after some time.

"Are you comfortable talking about your parents, Harry? I wouldn't want to pressure you in-"

"Of course sir," the boy said eagerly, smiling in an assumed attempt to placate the man before him. "I lost them at a time that I can barely remember, so while I totally regret not having them around, it's not like I feel like I'm missing out on a whole lot. The kids here that go to families, I'm not jealous or anything, 'cause the home is always full either way. Besides, Phil and Greg are too old to leave, just like me. We'll be a team until the end, sir."

"Such maturity," said Doge under his breath, returning the boy's infectious smile. "They really do treat you well here, don't they Harry?" The boy nodded in agreement. "You've turned out so well. To think, all the tragedies you've had to endure. What with your parents so shortly after your birth, and then -"

"Sir?" asked Harry. "Sorry for interrupting again, but what do you mean by 'shortly'? My parents died when I was three."

"I beg your pardon, Harry?"

Doge couldn't believe his ears. _That wasn't right, _he thought. After all, James and Lily Potter were murdered almost ten years ago, mere months after Harry's first birthday. Upon seeing the boy looking thoroughly cowed, Doge cursed inwardly.

"My apologies, Harry, I wasn't thinking! I didn't mean to sound like I was disciplining you – the matter surrounding your parents' deaths was rather well-publicised in our world. You came from a _very _important family, you see. Now, you said this happened when you were three?"

"Yes," said Harry, "in a car crash, sir. I was in it, I remember that much."

"A _car crash_?" exclaimed Doge, making the boy in front of him brace for cover. "Sorry, my boy, truly I am... James and Lily Potter... _died in a car crash_?"

"Sir?" called Harry. Doge motioned for him to continue. "If I may, sir, we seem to be on completely different pages, here. Why did you call my parents James and Lily?"

"Those were... are their names, Harry." said Doge with an air of uncertainty.

"No, they're not though, sir," said Harry more confidently, rising slightly from the leather recliner. "Their names are Vernon and Petunia, and my brother, Dudley, was sent somewhere else. I'm rather surprised you didn't mention him yet, sir. I've been anxious to meet him for years now."

Doge stared dumbly after meeting the child's expectant gaze. Eventually, comprehension dawned over him, and he wheezed quietly, bringing a hand to his temple.

"Harry," he rasped, "oh, Harry, I'm not sure how to proceed from here."

"Sir? Please," Harry urged, placing his quivering hands on the beaten beech desk. "Whatever it is, please tell me. I can handle it, I _have _to know."

"Of course," said Doge quietly, forcing himself to meet Harry's bright green eyes. It seemed to unnerve the boy even more. "You do need to know, Harry. You see, er... Vernon and Petunia, as well as young Dudley... they actually went by the family name of Dursley."

Harry's eyes widened, but he said nothing, so Doge carried on.

"Immediately after your... er... birth parents' deaths, our world decided it best that you were relocated to your closest living blood relatives. That happened to be your mother's sister, Petunia, married to a Vernon Dursley with a son around your age.

"We kept a close eye on you back then... the higher-ups demanded it. They looked after you well enough, embraced you as their own apparently. But the trouble with magically able children is that they don't always react well to certain aspects within Muggle environments, like-"

"Muggle? What's Muggle, sir?" asked Harry.

"Non-magical, Harry," the old man answered quickly, adamant to stay on track this time. "Now from what I gather, you were indeed in a car crash, and you and Dudley were the only survivors. It would appear that none of our people have been monitoring you since you were placed here."

"Well this makes sense," said Harry thickly, wiping away a stray tear. "You kept talking about how I looked like my Dad, and I was sure that I didn't. He was big and pink, and had _brown_ hair. He used to give me and Dudley piggy-back rides, and I used to pull his moustache..."

Harry started sobbing, resting his head on the desk which was slowly turning grey. Doge left his seat a placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, shaking his head at how much of a disaster this visit had become.

"There now, my boy, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm certain their love remains with you, it's why you've endured so well," he said softly.

After a while, Harry leaned back in the chair, sniffed hard and roughly wiped the tear tracks away from his cheeks.

"It's all right sir," said Harry, swallowing a breath of air. He slowly spun the recliner around, idly looking through the slits between plastic blinds covering the dusty window. "Not sure what came over me there. I've never really cried about them, or at least I don't remember, it's been so long now. I'm sorry sir, please carry on. I want to know what happened to... James and Lily."

Doge sighed. It would probably take a long while before Harry came to consider the elder Potters as his true parents, if ever. "Now Harry, I'm not sure it's for the best after-"

"No," the boy said with determination Doge had would never expect to hear from a child. Eyes ablaze with resolve, Harry pressed further. "I need to hear it, sir. What happened? Why did _they _die, too?"

"It's a delicate topic, Harry," said the ancient teacher, claiming defeat. He knelt on one knee, looking at the boy levelly in the eye. "What you must understand, is that our world, the _wizarding_ world, was and is currently embroiled in a war, of sorts."

"A war, sir?" asked Harry, fidgeting in his seat.

"Please Harry, don't worry too much about it," said Doge, softening his tone to placate the child. "Wars are a common occurrence in human history. In actual fact, the Muggle world only very recently entered what one could call a peaceful period. But yes, we are currently in a state of er, political tension. Remember I said that the magically able don't react well to Muggle environments?" Harry nodded. "Well, that's all because of how Muggles use electricity."

"Electricity?"

"Electricity, my boy," reiterated Doge. "It doesn't meld well with our magic, you must see. Any magic, really. We have our own ways of producing electric currents with magic, but place a magically imbued object anywhere near Muggle technology for long, you'll get- "

"A bloody catastrophe," Harry finished for him, before clasping his hands to his mouth following Doge's hearty laugh.

"You've got it in one," he wheezed, before getting up from the floor and returning to his own chair. "Now we're doing just fine right here, but I assume there's little electricity in this old house. No televisions or those new computer thingies, eh?"

"Just the telephone," said Harry, looking down at the cream-coloured handset in front of them. A long, coiled wire of the same hue ran all the way down under the beech desk. 'But Miss Meacham would never let me touch that, anyway."

"I'm sure," muttered Doge, regarding the machine with a wary eye. "Certainly, infants and very young children fare just fine around the technology, but when they start showing signs of accidental magic, it causes problems. Muggles aren't supposed to know anything about magic, for the most part. It gets worse as we mature. As our own innate magic grows stronger, and the longer we stay in such magically saturated environments, the more frequent these problems arise. I need a special license to carry this bad-boy in Muggle areas," he said with a wink, proudly displaying his odd wooden stick.

"A wand, my boy," he said, meeting Harry's bemused stare. "An essential tool for all sorcery practitioners... in the region, that is. Practising magic in the vicinity of Muggles is highly frowned upon, illegal in most cases. Well, some wizards don't like that. Not one bit. They argue that it's the fault of Muggles for having incompatible property, and we shouldn't be ashamed to freely use our birthright.

"Soon after the Second World War, a powerful wizard by the name of Gellert Grindelwald had conquered much of central and eastern Europe. His movement was especially hostile towards Muggles, and they planned to take over the world with wizards on top. Maybe you've been taught about all the strange incidents that happened in that region over the past few decades?' Harry nodded slowly. 'I believe your textbooks would refer to them as the Shadow Blitz, but we in the wizarding world gave it an altogether different name: _The Glorious Expansion_.

"There are several areas in that region deemed unfit to live by Muggles. They've cited radiation levels as the culprit, but that's only a cover story in several places. You see, while we are around four hundred thousand strong in the British Isles, the capital of the Eastern Magical Republic in Ukraine is home to five _million _magical Beings in total. They're doing very well for themselves – I mean, surely you'd think the Muggles wonder where all this extra grain is being exported from.

"Well anyway, most of us disagreed with Grindelwald – we felt that Muggles shared the same journey to claim power over nature, and we fought against him under the greatest sorcerer to ever live – Albus Dumbledore, your soon-to-be headmaster. Your parents, ardent supporters of Dumbledore, were the main and last remaining branch of Potters alive, and like many other families, were facing extinction in the wake of all this inter-wizard bloodshed. They still fought, in the knowledge that if not, Grindelwald would prepare a full-scale attack on the Muggle military. That would be the end of our society, and children, like you, Harry, would be born in captivity, experimented on and feared by the public for the power you can't help but wield.

"Nearly ten years ago, on the eve of Samhain, your parents were ambushed in a safehouse during a mission smuggling wizards out of the Eastern Republic. You were staying by the Longbottoms, old family friends. Lily and James put up an admirable fight, but were simply outnumbered in the end. Grindelwald personally murdered them both, our boys confirmed it. They were brought back and buried in the family cemetery at Godric's Hollow, in the West Country. Both twenty-one years of age... I'm... so sorry, my boy," said Doge, his voice cracking towards the end of his tale.

"Mr Doge, it's okay, really," said Harry after a minute. "I never knew them, like I said. But now I know, they died for me. I've got to make them proud, and I have no idea who they were... it'll take some time for me to get my head around this..."

"I'm sure you will, Harry. Take all the time you need." said Doge, wiping a moist eye with his handkerchief. Upon replacing the cloth in his pocket, the man set a smile on his face and opened his wrinkled mouth once more. "It's regrettable that we have to discuss such matters. But now that we have, we can move onto a much more uplifting subject: your impending tuition at Hogwarts. You've shown me how well you wield your magic, but I must still conduct a simple test. Nothing to fear, my boy," he added after spotting Harry's look of apprehension, "just a formality. You've no need to prepare in advance or anything!"

And with that, the wizened Doge leaped from his seat and placed a large, dark metallic cube onto the beech desk. Harry, who evidently hadn't seen the box before, made a face as Doge held his wooden stick aloft yet again.

"Oh yes, Harry, the box was always here. A little trick of mine, and something of a Doge family secret," he said with a conspiratorial wink. Tapping its surface lightly with his wand, the cube unfolded itself, revealing a tray containing various oddly shaped artefacts.

"Wow," Harry gasped, gazing at the display of magic in amazement. "I will find out your secret, Mr Doge, I swear it."

"Hmm, wouldn't count on it," drawled Doge, procuring a strange glass tube from the tray. It was about four inches long, and closed on both sides, though one end was perforated by hundreds of tiny holes.

"Now Harry, to perform this test, all you have to do is take this pocket-Augometer, and say, 'My name is Harry James Potter' in a clear voice towards the holey end. Can you do that?"

"Er, why?" asked Harry.

"A true name is a terribly powerful thing, Mr Potter," said Doge slowly, meeting Harry's eyes as he offered the Augometer, "and we are subconsciously aware of this. Our souls know the true name to be the most potent magic words one could ever speak."

"Um... all right, then."

Harry gingerly grasped the glass tube. Rolling it around in his fingers, and warily lifting it towards his lips, Harry intoned, "My name is _Harry James Potter._"

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note:** Many thanks for reading the first chapter of the _Untitled Tome. _Reviews and/or PMs are more than welcome!**  
**

This is a potential series made up of a number of plot bunnies that wouldn't leave me alone. I held back _a lot _with the first version of this author's note, but this is what you might want to know before diving in:

\- There is no Lord Voldemort here, no prophecy, no Chosen One, etc.

\- This is a heavily AU series featuring a larger world of magic, and the interaction between its races (as well as wizards and Muggles)

\- Centered on a somewhat cared-for Harry's growth as a wizard of great potential. He will be formidable by post-Hogwarts, but there are no shortcuts here: take everything you see in the first few chapters with a pinch of salt, and remember Canon!Lily from the Pensieve in DH.

\- No slash where Harry's concerned, and since this fic is Years 1-2, no romance beyond teasing. As for the sequels, anything could happen.

\- I first posted this in March 2014. We didn't know the names of James Potter's parents at the time, and though Charlus and Dorea were long shots, I've gone for a compromise. Sorry if it rankles anyone!


	2. Albus Marks A Paper

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Doge meets with senior Hogwarts staff to discuss his interview with Harry, two witches catch up over a spot of tea, and an old man reads a newspaper.

* * *

**Chapter Two - Albus Marks A Paper**

Cináed's Folly, located deep in the Scottish Highlands, was an unimpressive, if not disquieting sight to most passers-by. Truncated squares of charred stone walls that would slowly but surely collapse under their own weight, and desolate stretches of flat land paved with sand now occupied the space where a majestic fortress once stood proud against the rough hilly surface. High-rising, rusty fences and weathered signs instructing "Keep Out", "Danger of Death" and "No Smoking, It's Inconsiderate" traced along the road-facing end of the ruins in an unnecessary attempt to keep bystanders at bay.

Despite the fact that the fences, weak-looking as they were, didn't even extend to cover the perimeter of the ruins, wandering travellers still steered well away from the structure. That might have had more to do with the foul stench of carrion that emanated from the surrounding soil. A select few, however, saw the immense possibilities that the location had to offer. Those select few did not see Cináed's Folly, but instead would discover the magnificent castle that was home to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Typically, the Headmaster's Tower, which overlooked the Middle Courtyard of the castle, was a lonely haunt at night. The spacious circular office would be populated only by long forgotten dusty tomes, with several picture frames, most of them empty, lining the walls where windows were absent. Tonight, it seemed, would be an exception. As the waning moon shone above in the star-flecked firmament, it cast a ghostly white column of light through a room with hundreds of moving portraits, a number of shining trinkets, several spinning instruments and three people absorbed in deep conversation. Should an eavesdropper observe the scene closely, they would possibly hear the occasional mutters of agreement or dissent from the inhabitants of the hanging portraits.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the current headmaster of the school, sat on an ornate, tall and gilded armchair, leisurely combing a long, white beard through his spindly fingers as he examined his guests. He wore a set of immaculate purple robes embroidered with strange silver symbols that glittered in the ethereal moonlight. This didn't seem inappropriate, as the tall, severe-looking middle-aged woman standing in front of him dressed in similarly cut tartan robes, and the fez-wearing old man stood next to her stared back at him with ill-repressed glee.

"He Apparated, you say?" asked Dumbledore, stroking his chin.

"That's right, Albus! With nary a pop!" the man replied with gusto. "Wouldn't have believed it otherwise, had I not witnessed it myself!"

"Good to know that you sympathise, Elphias." the woman to his left muttered, drawing a long, dark wand from her robes. With a flourish and a faint pop, two leather-backed wooden chairs suddenly appeared in front of the Headmaster's desk. Flashing the witch a smile of gratitude, Elphias Doge made himself comfortable in the chair on the left. The witch followed suit, tutting under her breath as she continued.

"So as you were saying, Harry Potter demonstrated this prodigious magical skill by floating in mid-air - without a channelling instrument - before Apparating across the room without causing a sound, essentially accomplishing that which is unheard of outside the circles of well-trained or learned wizards?" the woman inquired with a sceptical look.

"Well yes, that's correct," said Doge with furrowed eyebrows. "Of course, when you put it like that, one-"

"You witnessed_ Harry Potter_," said the witch, her voice tart, "a boy born barely more than a decade ago, perform controlled and complex magic without the aid of a _wand?_ You're sure, Elphias?"

"Why Minerva," gasped Doge, seemingly offended. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're refusing to take me seriously!"

Minerva, the black-haired witch in question, threw her hands up in defeat and made way to leave her chair, before being stopped by the chortling Headmaster.

"Now now, Minerva," said Dumbledore, wagging a finger in mock admonishment as Minerva huffed in response. "We must play well with others. If I remember correctly, our esteemed Madam McGonagall is well-regarded in the Wizengamot chambers for her unparalleled sense of fair-play, is she not?"

"She is indeed, Albus," said Doge, giggling at his quip like a child a thirtieth his age, until he suddenly bounced on his chair with a piercing yelp. Minerva smiled in satisfaction.

"Oh do shut up, you old schlub," hissed a dark-haired wizard with a pointy beard, who happened to be occupying one of the portraits close to the Headmaster's seat. Doge visibly deflated.

"Phineas," Dumbledore sighed, looking askance in the picture frame's direction, "I believe that was most unnecessary. Perhaps you wouldn't mind visiting another of your portraits for now, since Professor Doge annoys you so?"

"Have it your way, Headmaster," Phineas said flatly, disappearing behind the frame as he stalked off.

'Six months," growled Doge, his forehead turning an impressively bright shade of crimson despite the present lighting conditions of the office. "He was Head for a measly six months, one wretched hundred years ago! Why does he have a portrait?"

"As our Muggle friends across the pond would say," said Dumbledore airily, "'those are the breaks', old chap. Now Elphias, as we have rid ourselves of all foreseeable potential disturbances, I must ask you to keep in mind that Professor McGonagall here has an early start visiting students tomorrow – we must make haste. I believe you managed to procure a copy of Harry's Augometer?"

"You _what_?" McGonagall snapped, clipping the considerably shorter wizard around the ear. "Elphias, you should know more than most that Augometers are strictly Ministry property! Once used, they contain highly sensitive information that is _not_ to be distributed and _not _to be duplicated!"

"Now Minerva-" Dumbledore started before being silenced by a pointed finger as the irate witch whirled towards him.

"And you!" she thundered. "How could you, Albus? Need I remind you that you are _still_ a Wizengamot member? What on Gaia's green earth were you thinking?"

"Minerva, while I do applaud your upstanding attitude towards legal compliance," said Dumbledore calmly as McGonagall's gaze threatened to immolate him, "I'll have you know that I received special permission from our friend Algernon. Prior to Elphias visit, of course."

"Croaker?" said McGonagall, ignoring a sing-song "ha-ha" from Doge. "From the Department of Mysteries?"

"The very same," said Dumbledore, inclining his head. "As Head of the Department, and in liaison with the Department of Magical Education old Algie is privy to the Augometer test results that come in each summer. Now, Elphias," he looked at Doge, "the test, if you may?"

"Certainly Albus," the other wizard squeaked, rummaging around in his waistcoat pocket. A few seconds later, he produced a misshapen piece of cloth, cradling it in both hands as he passed it to the Headmaster.

"Careful now, it's hot," he whispered. "I had him do the test twice, and this was the second one. I think the first one looked almost fit to explode!"

Surely enough, as Dumbledore eagerly but gently unravelled the fabric around the tube, a dazzling green light illuminated the immediate area. McGonagall sucked in a breath as Doge resumed his giggling fit.

"Headmaster, check the reading," McGonagall said breathlessly, leaning forward. As Dumbledore drew his own wand to analyse the glowing tube, Doge reached into his pockets yet again.

"Silly me," he muttered in his wheezy voice, plucking a strip of tan-coloured paper from his coat. "Here's a grading slip. I've already sent one to the Ministry. Wonder what the boys and girls down there will think once they feast their eyes on-"

"Shut up Elphias," said McGonagall, snatching the strip of paper from the man's outstretched hand, and hurriedly setting it on the table next to the Augometer.

Dumbledore looked down at the slip. Upon closer inspection, he noted that the minute bar chart marked on the paper was indeed blank. Fixing his gaze on the Augometer once more, he gently ran the tip of his wand along the length of the glass tube. The wand's tip gradually began to emit the same green light, and once he was satisfied, Dumbledore gave the grading slip a firm tap. Almost immediately, a series of bars, lines and numbers flickered in and out, eventually arranging themselves into a profile of detailed statistics. At the bottom of the slip, a number burned itself into the paper with a final flash of light.

"What does the parchment say, Albus?" asked McGonagall, her voice trembling in anticipation. Doge's grin looked as if it could split his face apart at any moment.

Dumbledore stared blankly at the parchment in bewilderment. This was unexpected; he'd always held Lily and James Potter in high regard for their extraordinary magical talent, among other things, and while he was sure Harry would take after them both, his results were simply unprecedented. _The last Potter indeed..._

"It's a seventy-four," he finally said, his sharp blue eyes shimmering beneath half-moon spectacles. "If anything, Harry James Potter is definitely Hogwarts-bound.'

"Well, it's not like we're letting Redmoor grab him," snorted Doge. "They'd try any underhanded tactic to get a leg up on the league tables!"

"Is that all you can think about now, Elphias?" said McGonagall, scandalised. "We should be more concerned with the Ministry snatching Lily and James' boy to carry out cruel experiments in the name of "nationally beneficial" research. Some second-rate school trying to get their claws on him is of no consequence, as far as I'm concerned.'

"I assure you, Minerva," said Dumbledore quietly, straightening his posture to regain some composure, "that we have nothing to fear concerning Harry's welfare. His name has been written down in our ledgers since he first showed signs of magic, and his parents specifically demanded he remain in _our _care following his first year at Hogwarts."

"The Order, Albus?" the witch asked, visibly convinced. Dumbledore smiled.

"You, Elphias, myself... we will all do our utmost to safeguard their child in the coming years. It's in their will, after all, and we owe them as much after the sacrifice they made for our cause. Harry is the last Potter, urban legends notwithstanding, and it is our duty to ensure that he lives the full life his forebears could not, to continue his line for many generations to come.

"Now, I'm certain that far more transpired besides your assessing the boy, Elphias. Perhaps you could summarise the rest of your visit for us?"

"Absolutely," said Doge firmly, clearing his throat loudly. "From what I gathered while speaking with the head matron, her charming assistant and Harry himself, that the boy is treated well is as clear as Demiguise hair. I fear that actually might pose a problem when it comes to removing Harry from there for good."

Dumbledore hummed softly. "A shame, I agree. But it's a necessity, inevitable even..."

"Yes," said Doge gravely. "Muggles and wizards, destined to be star-crossed lovers." He stopped awkwardly at McGonagall's inquisitive gaze. Dumbledore smiled at the man, knowing full well his old friend's affliction struck yet again. _Oh, to be young and dumb, _the ancient wizard thought wistfully.

"Back to the matter at hand," Doge wheezed, wiping his brow. "We touched upon a subject on which dear Harry was... seriously misinformed.'

"Elphias?" called Dumbledore as the other man fell quiet.

"Apologies... you see, it was a distressing situation to say the least. I hadn't meant to cause the lad any more pain- "

"_What _did you do, Elphias?" McGonagall hissed.

"I, I -" Doge caught his tongue, shivering in trepidation as he turned to the witch seated next to him. "Minerva, _I _had to tell him... He didn't know who his parents were.'

"Well Elphias, he was only one when it happened," Dumbledore said gently, but when his eyes met Doge's, he was bludgeoned by the dull, hammer-like strike of understanding. "Oh dear, I see now...'

"I'm so sorry Elphias," McGonagall said softly, resting a hand on the old wizard's shoulder. "I can't imagine how you found the words."

Dumbledore shut his eyes. While his caregivers had apparently raised him well, they had done him a grave injustice by withholding such personal information from the boy. Dumbledore only hoped the damage was not irreparable.

"He knows now, at least," Doge mumbled, intertwining his own hand with McGonagall's, "and he took it surprisingly well, though I'm sure he was holding back. I suppose you'll want me to take him to Diagon Alley for his supplies?"

Dumbledore chuckled darkly at the swift change of subject. "You never were one to wallow, Elphias. I was hoping you'd be available, yes, though if you are otherwise occupied, I could always call on Severus to- "

"_No._" said McGonagall, stony faced. "I will _not _allow it!"

"Come now, Minerva," Dumbledore appealed to the witch. "Severus lays claim to a very diverse background. He is more than qualified to introduce young Harry to the many idiosyncrasies of the wizarding world."

"Be that as it may," she replied, crossing her arms in plain displeasure, "the man's behaviour is wholly inappropriate. It's hardly befitting for a _student, _let alone an educator. Once again I find myself questioning if Severus Snape is even fit to teach!"

"_Professor _Severus Snape is unanimously endorsed by the Board of Governors, Minerva," said Dumbledore, peering at McGonagall as his spectacles drifted toward the tip of his nose, "and boasts numerous accolades for his alchemical practice. Our youngest Potions Master hired in thirty years, to boot. I know the two of you have your differences, but- "

"Albus," interjected Doge, firmly raising a hand in protest, McGonagall exhaling heavily on his right. "I can take Mr Potter. It's no trouble, you assumed wrong."

Dumbledore looked at Doge, then McGonagall, and then back at the old fez-donning wizard. He made a small 'o' with his mouth, and flashed McGonagall a sheepish smile.

"Well if that's all, Albus," she said, straightening her robes as she rose from her seat, "I need to get up especially early for tomorrow. I'm expected at Augusta's for afternoon tea, so I can't afford to run late on these appointments."

"Of course," replied Dumbledore with a slight bow of the head. "I would prefer to avoid the wrath of the formidable Madam Longbottom. Please send my regards, Minerva."

"I shall," McGonagall said, smiling despite herself. "Please keep the chairs. They should hold for another month, at least." With that, she left through the exit on the other side of the room, where the beginning of a spiral staircase could be seen from the edge of the doorway.

"They are very comfy, you know," said Doge, grinning as he tapping a leather arm on his own chair.

"I'm sure," said Dumbledore, flourishing his wand. A bowl containing what looked like peanuts appeared on the desk. "Could I interest you in a Cockroach Cluster? I find them to be quite moreish. Minerva detests them - it took all of my willpower not to Summon them five minutes ago!"

* * *

_Only a couple of moments to spare, _thought McGonagall, bustling around a compact stone-floored room filled with stacks of parchment.

"Now _where _did I put it? _Accio floo powder,_" she said with a wave of her wand. A glass cabinet near the office's entrance fluttered open as a small leather pouch buried deep inside zoomed straight into McGonagall's outstretched hand. Releasing the drawstring, she scooped out a pinch worth of glittery silver powder from the pouch. Setting her sights towards her far left, McGonagall marched towards a gigantic stone fireplace.

She hurled the pinch of twinkling powder into the roaring flames. At once, they turned bright green, and the intense heat which previously emanated from them settled through the atmosphere.

"Falconry House," said McGonagall sharply, removing her wide-brimmed hat to immerse her head in the subtly crackling green fire. As she blinked, she could make out the blurry, viridian-filtered image of what appeared to be a decadent withdrawing room, where a woman about her age, donning an oddly shaped headpiece regularly sipped from a miniature teacup while reading from a newspaper.

"Augusta," called McGonagall. The woman's head snapped upright. "Augusta? I'm coming through, are you decent?"

One of Augusta's eyebrows twitched a little. "You should leave the wisecracks to me, silly girl. Yes, come through."

McGonagall got back on her feet and stepped into the flames. Feeling the ground beneath her fall away, she was assaulted by visions of countless other hearths and fireplaces, even spotting the odd person tumbling through one or the other, before she eventually landed gracefully, her view of Augusta's room far sharper than before.

"Minerva," Augusta said, smirking faintly, "punctual as ever. To what do I owe the pleasure, again...?"

"I think you're finally going senile, my dear," McGonagall replied, her eyes shining with mirth as she collapsed into an armchair beside the other woman, "though I can't honestly say I'm surprised, considering your absurd taste in head wear. Is that an albatross on your head, woman?"

"Hmph! I wouldn't expect a dirty_, uncouth _half-blood like you to understand," Augusta quipped, cackling as she dodged a pillow McGonagall conjured with a swift flick of her wand. "Quick on the draw, as always. How's trix, as the Muggles say?"

McGonagall sighed softly, giving her old friend a wan smile. "The usual, my dear. Enrapturing prospective students with fantastic opportunities beyond their wildest dreams... right after having their families torn apart, mind. I'm thinking about selling some of my Hogwarts shares to buy out a resident booth in the Leaky Cauldron. What say you, Augusta?"

"I say," the albatross-hatted witch drawled, taking a long sip from her teacup before continuing, "you have no class, Minerva. Though I suppose it would be better than finding you drowning your sorrows in that sty Albus' brother owns. You're making a lot of noise about nothing, by the way. Those children are better off with us, you know that."

"But to erase their families' memories, Augusta?" McGonagall winced, eyes downcast. "While the children themselves remember everything, including their glorified kidnapping... I don't know how much longer I can be complicit in this. The Ministry is corrupt to the hilt, and we're fighting a long-lost battle in the Chambers, guaranteed."

"Families are fragile things, Minerva. Sometimes I wonder if the fond memories I have of Frank - of Roger, even - did more to harden my heart in recent years than anything else."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked McGonagall incredulously.

"Just as I said, girl. To have all that I knew and loved stripped away from me in the space of two decades... well, I long for the past. I may have even punished the loved ones I still have for it," Augusta said, grimacing, "and I'd do anything to turn back the proverbial clock. But these little ones, the Muggle-borns and upcoming half-bloods, they have it happen to them so early. They have their whole lives ahead of them. You might think me twisted, I _know _you do, but the only way for them is up."

"Maybe," said McGonagall, shaking her head slightly, "but I'll never regret my father dying before Malcolm's grandchildren went off to Hogwarts, I can assure you."

"It's a sad state of affairs, Minerva," Augusta said solemnly, "I shan't disagree with you there." She sat up, flexing bony yet robust arms as she put on a bright smile. "Now must we always waste our meetings discussing the woes of the wizarding world? We _could _have been born goblins, you know. _Mopsy! _Scones, please!"

Not a moment after Augusta had shouted her request at some invisible servant, the faintest_ 'pop' _accompanied the sudden appearance of a strange, tiny humanoid figure at the witch's feet.

"That was very quick indeed, Mopsy. Well done, girl."

"Sorry that Mopsy is being late, Madam Longbottom," the odd being said quickly, dusting off a tea cosy-like dress, her large, pointed ears flapping to and fro. As she looked up at the two witches in front of her, Mopsy revealed a face with disproportionately huge blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a side-splitting grin and a beak of a nose covered in flour.

"Mopsy is making the scones from scratch from when she hears you call, mistress!" As she spoke, she snapped her fingers, magicking a full tea set with a tray of scones on a rosewood coffee table.

"Mopsy will be quicker next time!" With an elegant bow, Mopsy disappeared with another faint "_ 'pop'._

"Mopsy, eh?" asked McGonagall, her lips wry. "I thought Tippy was your tea elf?"

"She's Tippy's niece," Augusta replied, bending down to butter a scone, "and she's far more enthusiastic. She's a _go-getter_, that girl. Keep an eye on her, Minerva. Who knows, she just might be in the running for the next Head Elf of Falconry House!"

"Quite," McGonagall dead-panned, "though I hear from young Andromeda that the old Baron Black's elves may have given you a run for your money."

"Please," Augusta scoffed, taking a bite out of her scone. "The _old Baron_ had sweet eff-eay to do with those poor devils, and we all know Walburga's a couple Gobstones short. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - _Dark witches can't train house elves._"

"I believe the mark of a good house elf is that it doesn't need training, Augusta," McGonagall mused, pouring herself a cup of tea. "You know, it's shameful - all the time we've spent chatting away, and I haven't asked about little Neville. How is the lad?'

"Oh, he's not so little any more," Augusta said pridefully. "He'll be eleven by midday tomorrow. We have to re-fit him for new robes every other week! I've tried giving him a head-start by passing on the Longbottom family Grimoire, you know. Algie's considering doing the same, since he's not looking to procreate any time soon... Neville's got chops, Minerva, but all he wants to do is play around in that greenhouse. He's completely unaware of his station; Herbology and the like is work for those with little spark and no hope."

"_Augusta!_" McGonagall exclaimed. "I know you want the boy to succeed, but he is not his father. Regardless of where his talents lie, Neville must eventually make his own choices, meaning you need to let him think for himself _now_."

Augusta stared back, eyes narrowed. "And you have how many children, Minerva?" she said bitingly.

"I'm going to excuse that little remark," McGonagall muttered, closing her eyes, "because you know I'm talking sense. Anyway," she picked up Augusta's discarded newspaper, "you're well acquainted with our dear editor, Mr Cuffe. Maybe you could help me understand the inspiration behind today's front page?"

* * *

Leaning back in his gilded armchair, Dumbledore let out a loud yawn, before laying twinkling blue eyes on the newspaper before him yet again. The _Daily Prophet_'s charmed-ink-on-parchment dailies were generally deemed tabloids of the especially trashy variety by most learned British wizards, though due to vociferous endorsements from key figures within the Ministry, the Headmaster deemed it prudent to keep abreast of topics written through its sensationalist lens. It would, unfortunately he felt, inform public opinion far more than the fully independent programmes running on the burgeoning market of wizarding television.

Living out his adolescence as a half-blood in a mostly non-magical community during the eighteen-fifties, Albus Dumbledore was especially familiar with the Muggle printing press, at least for a wizard. As such, he still found himself fascinated with the animated ink one would find in magical periodicals, paintings and the like. That and the fact that the daily _Mab and Chip _cartoons appealed to the child inside him.

Tonight, however, would not see a chuckling Headmaster laboriously cut out the comic strips by hand, pasting them in scrapbooks as he went along. Instead, it would see him pore over the headline on yesterday's front page for the seventeenth time.

* * *

**_The Daily Prophet, July 29th 1991_**

**_HARRY POTTER: THE BOY OF TOMORROW?_**

**by Orpheus LENNON**

_According to trusted sources within the 11/17 Committee, an education-oriented quango affiliated with the MoM Department of Education, a new record in child augometric testing history was recently attained by none other than Harry Potter, only child of the late Rt Hon. Baron James C Potter, and the last remaining of his respective Chief House._

_The "Augometer", a product developed and financed by the 11/17 Committee, uses state-of-the-art technology to gauge a magical being's potential magical power, benchmarked against members of its own species and age group. Mr Potter, aged eleven, allegedly scored a 74, which according to the Augo Profile (averaging at 38 for witches or wizards of any age) places him clearly off the scale with an upper limit of 65, a feat officially accomplished by only two other wizards since the test's inception._

_Ministry officials are reportedly rejoicing and lamenting in equal measure. Winona Foster, a senior moderator on the permanent marking panel in the Wizarding Examinations Authority, believed that "he might be able to do what that old coot Dumbledore never could- knock the stuffing out of Grindelwald for good!"_

_Ms Foster, eighty-two, has worked in the Ministry's education department for almost half a century. In that time, the next highest recorded augometric test reading was a 62, attained by a qualified master sorcerer - a Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt, now a veteran within the Ministry's Auror Office (cont. on p5)_

* * *

Setting down the paper, Dumbledore reached for a small bottle-green jar, a glistening golden feather protruding from it. With a snap of his fingers, a notepad-sized piece of parchment popped into existence on top of the _Prophet. _Dipping the feather thrice in its jar, Dumbledore scribbled a few sentences down on the parchment, holding it up to the chandelier candlelight once he was finished.

"Fawkes," the Headmaster called out to the ostensibly empty office. Following an awkward silence, briefly interrupted by a loud cough coming from one of the walls, a small gout of flames erupted above a wooden post opposite the office table. Left in its wake was a swan-sized, crimson-feathered bird of some sort, sweetly crooning from its gleaming golden beak.

"Good evening my friend," Dumbledore said reverently, rising from his chair. He walked towards the perch, note in hand, gently stroking the bird's plumage with the other. " "I have a message for you to deliver to our honourable Minister, Mr Fudge, concerning matters of state security. Are you up to the task?" Fawkes gave the man a sidelong glance, seizing the missive with its beak. It ruffled its feathers and in another gout of flame, disappeared as soon as it had come.

"Surely you aren't wondering where the leak came from?" a disembodied voice spat from the walls. "It was obviously the old schlub, Doge. The man has diricawl dung for brains.'

"Ah, Phineas," greeted Dumbledore, leaning against his table as he turned to the pointy-bearded wizard's portrait. "I hadn't expected you to return for a few more days, at the very least."

"You obviously don't think much of me Headmaster," the portrait snarled, "if you believe that I'd let a fool like Doge get the better of me. No, I grew tired of my descendant's nonsensical rambling. I haven't heard that many Ministry officials accused of being secretly Muggle-born since the McCarthy days!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore half-laughed, casually studying his wand for a time.

"Phineas," he eventually spoke. "What's your take on all of this _last Potter_ business, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Unless his father unwittingly sired another snot-nosed brat, I'd assume he is indeed the last Potter," the wizard responded, rolling his painted eyes. "Not that I'd be surprised. Those so-called 'Bright' wizards seem incapable of mastering their own loins."

"He was your great-grandson many times over, Phineas, do not forget," said the Headmaster, waggling a finger as his countenance bore a mischievous smile.

Phineas harrumphed, turning his nose up at his successor as Dumbledore chuckled.

"Speaking of great great-grandsons," the haughty wizard spoke as Dumbledore's laughter subsided, "you haven't heard anything concerning- "

"Sirius? I'm afraid not, old friend," Dumbledore said warily, returning to his seat only to rest on the nearer arm. "The goblins down at Gringotts are still refusing to entrust the inheritance over to your great-granddaughter, despite Walburga's wishes. The Ministry hardly cares as Orion's will is iron-clad, while we have no evidence of Sirius' death. Quite the contrary, in fact, as you know well."

"Quite," Phineas said, pensive. "Dragons led by flobberworms, indeed. All of those cursed Blacks, even Potter... why are my descendants such _fools_? I can't blame your cause, Headmaster, naive as it may be, but the twits would have been safer staying on the duelling circuit."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"Well, whatever your sentiments are towards the family in general," he said, "you must undoubtedly feel a sense of pride in your long-lost descendant."

"I am a _painting, _Dumbledore."

"I haven't forgotten. I didn't mean to hurt your _feelings, _forgive me," the Headmaster said jovially.

The Black ancestor flared his nostrils. "Power," he eventually said, "is nothing without _wisdom, _something I'd wager the boy severely lacks considering his age... and his father. His mother on the other hand, a Mudblood though she was- "

"Phineas..."

"Oh hush, man," Phineas scoffed, coiling the end of his beard around a manicured finger. "As I was saying... His _Muggle-born _mother showed wisdom far beyond her years. An almost unparalleled comprehension of the ancient magics- "

"Phineas, need I remind you that you were dead for three-quarters of a century before Lily Evans graced these halls as a student?"

"The walls have eyes, Headmaster. Obviously. Now regarding my 'long-lost descendant', what would you propose to do? You don't have enough time to tutor him individually."

"I do not, you are correct," said Dumbledore, sighing. "I have a couple of candidates in mind, though the best man for the job is currently on yet another World Tour."

"Oh, _him,_" sniffed Phineas. "What is it with so many of these half-bloods? Such strong affinities with their magic, it hardly makes sense."

"But it makes such perfect sense, Phineas, that the Department of Mysteries allowed the disclosure of a paper on the very subject a few years back," Dumbledore said, amused by the portrait's huffing. "Not that the Upper Chamber will permit free access to it any time soon."

The Headmaster slid off the arm of his chair, fixing his gaze upon the starlit sky crowned by a waning gibbous moon.

"Harry Potter, the _Boy of Tomorrow_," he said softly, "what will tomorrow hold for you?"

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **And there's Chapter Two of _Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome._ Many thanks for the reviews so far!


	3. Alice Kisses A Frog

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Harry eats pancakes, Dumbledore hitches a ride, and Elphias takes his charge to Central London.

**Author's note: **Welcome back, folks. If you're planning on following this, thanks for sticking with me! This will be a very short chapter in comparison, but the next one is right behind it! It's mundane in comparison, but so very necessary. Once again, please read, review, crit, follow if you'd like, even flame, and PM any questions you may have should you feel it's somewhat spoiler un-friendly.

* * *

**Chapter Three – Alice Kisses A Frog  
**

As the sun rose over the town of Oakwood, bathing its trees, pavements and windows in a dazzling orange sheen, little Harry Potter was abruptly roused by a burning sensation over the surface of his eyelids. Hastily removing the circular-framed spectacles he'd presumably forgotten to take off the night before and securing them in a leather case under his pillow, Harry slowly untangled himself from crisp white sheets and swung his legs over the red iron frame of the lower bunk bed he'd slept in.

He flexed his joints as a powerful yawn escaped from his lips, only to bash his head against the frame of the upper bunk in turn. Cursing loudly, Harry massaged his skull, leaving his hair even more unkempt than before. He heard a muffled, mournful cry above him, and craning his neck upwards, he squinted at an amorphous blob with a brown mass of curls shuffle out of identical sheets, as if he were a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

"Sorry Greg," Harry whispered putting on a rueful smile, "woke up on the wrong side of the bed. You should probably get up anyway, it's already- " he glanced at a wind-up clock resting on a chipped wooden dresser, "five-to-seven. You won't need any beauty sleep for my birthday breakfast!"

In an instant, the cocoon-boy known as Greg ceased his attempt to wriggle free from his duvet.

"B... birthday?" he rasped as he came to, "Your..._ birthday..."_

"**You right, Greg,"** Harry said in his best imitation of a caveman, "**it Harry berf day!**"

"Birthday! _Harry's bir—thday!" _the curly-haired boy screamed at the top of his lungs, his eyes alight with mischief.

Harry's open mouth trembled, his face ashen. "No..." he exhaled, aghast.

As if on cue, a bevy of hurried, clunking footsteps could be heard in the distance, rapidly making their way to the boys' bedroom from both directions of the oak-floored corridor.

"Rush 'im!" an army of voices cried as the door burst open, revealing a mob of determined yet joyful children, their eyes all focused on a single target.

"Mercy," said Harry, whimpering as he fell to his knees and clasped his hands together in desperation. "I plead mercy!"

The mob moved as one, their raucous laughter punctuating every blow as they pummelled the helpless child with the appearance of vicious, formless spectres - at least that's how they appeared to Harry. Greg watched on in horrid delight, until he had apparently had enough and decided to vault the frame of the upper bunk, felling the rabid crowd as Harry's body broke his fall.

"Oof! Ger-off, y'fat pig!" Harry spat. Greg didn't hear him, it seemed, since he proceeded to pinch Harry's cheeks as he recited a tune in an indeterminate key:

_"Birthday beats_

_Birthday beats,_

_For a birthday boy_

_They're the best of treats!"_

With the rest of the children joining in chorus, Greg started waving his arms, leading the impromptu ensemble in the absence of a professional conductor.

_Never take your eyes off an opponent, young grasshopper, _Harry thought with a cheeky grin as he ever so lightly placed his hands on Greg's sides. As he concentrated with all his might, his other senses gradually fell away. _Shock him... shock him... shock him..._

The larger boy continued his game, completely unaware of his victim's machinations.

_"Should you set_

_The pris'ner_ _fre_—urrf!"

Greg felt a small jolt of... something hit him in the midsection, and he jumped to his feet with a tiny squeak. As the other children sniggered, he furiously scanned the crowd, probably in an effort to punish the traitor. Harry saw his chance, launching himself off the dusty carpet and sprinting towards the door, only to have his sole means of escape obstructed by what he could barely make out as a blond-haired boy several heads taller than him.

"Sorry bud, you know the rules," the boy droned through a yawn, peering down at Harry with heavy-lidded eyes.

"_Et tu, _Philip?" Harry said, despondent.

"Come again?"

"You know," the black-haired boy continued, "from the play? The famous line? Caesar's assassination?"

The older teen regarded him with a blank stare. Harry whirled around in frustration.

"_Julius Caesar? _Anyone?" he called out to the crowd, hoping at least one of the kids would even nod in acknowledgement.

They didn't.

"William _bloody _Shakespeare, for Christ's sake!" he finally exhaled.

"Oh, nerd stuff," said Greg slowly in ill-assumed understanding as his stomach rumbled rather loudly. "Huh... Looks like I'm hungry. Anyone else?" Met with a murmured consensus of agreement among the occupants of the room (Harry being a notable exception), Greg made his way to the door.

"Happy birthday, Harry," he said, clapping Harry on the back as he brushed past Philip. "Bugsy first in the bathroom!" The other children echoed Greg's congratulations for the most part, except for a shorter blob which had what he assumed to be a dark, neck-length bob-cut and an olive complexion. As it came closer, it leaned on its tiptoes to reach Harry's eye level.

"Happy birthday, Harry!" it said sweetly in a voice that he knew to belong his friend Alice, before giving him a peck on the cheek and running through the now clear doorway. The scene was followed by a cacophony of "_ooooh"_s, "_aww"_s and one particularly noisy claim of "_lurgies"_, further adding to Harry's humiliation as he was eventually left alone in the deceptively compact quarters.

_They suck. Every single one of them, _Harry internally groused, _except for Alice, maybe._ The tiny girl had always vouched for him in the face of the formidable Miss Meacham's imminent wrath, undue or otherwise, and she definitely made a concerted effort to better understand him than other resident orphans, Phil and Greg included. All in all, Harry was willing to overlook her unfortunate_ lurgy _problem. After all, she didn't ask to be born with it, and, interestingly enough, Harry had never encountered any clinical evidence supporting the existence of the illness.

That being said, what if he was actually the one with these so-called lurgies? No one else he knew could sneeze a mattress yellow, to be sure. He hadn't exactly lied to the old Professor Doge, but even when Harry could boast some degree of control over his _magic _(the word sounded so natural in his head now) it required total concentration - it was hardly second nature. What use would that be in a dire situation? _Worst superhero ever, _he lamented before brainstorming various monikers for argument's sake.

"The Yard-Long Flash? Nah. Five-Second Floater? Hm. Broccoliturd?"

Harry shuddered at his self-induced reminder of the Christmas Eve fiasco. _That all changes today,_ he mused, retrieving his spectacles from under the pillow to restore his much-needed eyesight. He grabbed an orange toothbrush from inside the dresser and ambled out into the third-floor bathroom, giving his teeth a quick seeing-to before introducing them to the inevitable but undeniably delicious decay that his birthday breakfast would surely carry with it.

Sliding down three flights of newly varnished banisters horse-riding style, he entered the narrow but far-reaching dining hall where breakfast was being served, slipping into a seat lodged between his two room mates.

"Cheers for saving a seat, guys," he said, scanning the table for any signs of his other friend, "Say, have either of you seen Alice?"

"Awww," Greg cooed, pinching Harry's cheek before having his hand swatted away, "birthday boy misses the missus, eh?"

Harry released a dramatic sigh. "She completes me, Gregory. Where's the food, anyway?"

"Holly and Miss Browne are rustling up some pancakes with a 'super secret' syrup," Phil murmured rolling his eyes, his voice barely audible over the din of impatient children announcing their displeasure with the service, "but still, you'd think these kids came from Winchmore Hill or somethin', innit?"

"Yeah, I suppose," replied Harry, staring at the ageing clock that hung next to a crucifix on the opposite side of the hall. _Five past seven... _Doge was scheduled to pick him up within the hour. He could feel his stomach slowly contorting into knots.

"What's got you so quiet, anyway?" asked Greg, making a face, "You're eleven today, mate! Bit early for a mid-life crisis dont'cha think?"

It then dawned on young Harry that he had, in fact, completely forgotten to inform any of his friends about his acceptance into a boarding school located roughly four hundred miles away. Pangs of regret eating away at his knot-riddled gut, Harry made to open his mouth in confession but Phil quickly beat him to the punch.

"Bah, he just caught the lurgies, remember?" said Phil, grappling Harry into a headlock and ruffling his hair. "Can't wait to kiss 'er again, I reckon. Ee'll be like a junkie stuck in Epping Forest by dinner, I bet - _yeouch_!" the boy shrieked as Harry bit his finger, immediately releasing the hold.

"You might be taller right now, Philip, but just you wait," Harry warned, caressing his aching neck. It was through this swift exchange of words and blows, however, that Harry's fears were allayed. He was three years younger than the both of them, in any case - if anything, he'd probably take the split the hardest. But still, there was an undeniably natural camaraderie among the trio; brains, brawn and... whatever it was that Greg did. They shared a bond woven with a godly steel ribbon, far too strong and flexible to be rent by the relatively measly hands of distance or time.

_Besides, _Harry thought, _isn't absence supposed to make the heart grow fonder?_

* * *

Thousands of commuters left and entered the town of Hoddesdon each day, due to its many convenient links to the capital. Home to both the Hoddesdon and Broxbourne railway stations as well as a convenient tributary off the A10 road allowed expeditious (though expensive) access for those who had the means to sleep in on a typical London Monday morning. As such, it would go without saying that the decrepit Hoddesdon Omnibus station had seen little to no use for the better half of a century following the settlement's advances in transportation. Nevertheless, the station stood proud in all its archaic glory, awash in peeling canary-yellow paint beside a copper carbonate-coloured signpost that had faded considerably over time.

Surprisingly, it hosted a solitary occupant in a lanky, sprightly old man dressed in a garish plum three-piece suit. Supposedly waiting for a bus that was running seventy years late, he clicked his tongue rhythmically while tapping a well-polished loafer on the pavement, his ankle-long silver beard bobbing up and down in tandem.

His ears twitching upon hearing a brass-like engine in the background, Albus Dumbledore looked to his right, searching the deserted street for the source of the strange noise. As if by magic, a bright red beetle-shaped automobile arrived around the corner on the far side of the street, slowing to a halt in front of the station. If a bystander were to observe the car closely, they might happen to notice that the wheels, in fact, hardly rotated at all. As a black tinted window rolled down, Dumbledore walked up to the side of the vehicle as he gave a feeble wave.

"My deepest gratitude, Hestia," he said, "for allowing me to accompany you on this... operation. It is most appreciated."

"Don't mention it, Sir Albus," a husky feminine voice replied, "I owe Lily big time from way back when. Now get in the front, we don't want to draw any more attention than we already might have, deserted station or no."

"Alas," Dumbledore said with a chuckle, slinking over to the other car door, "it appears the Muggle world has evolved beyond belief. I had high hopes for this disguise... almost fooled myself in the mirror this morning, I'll have you know!"

* * *

"...so if one takes into account the nature of the molecule's vibrational transitions, unique though the situation is, it becomes clear that pure water has an intrinsically light blue colour. Happy?" Harry smiled brightly at a forlorn-looking Phil.

"I _just_ wanted a glass of water," groaned Phil, downing the cup in front of him, "a nice, cool, _clear _glass of water. Can you just let me have that in peace?"

Harry opened his mouth in reply, only to be interrupted for the second time that morning. Hearing the tired old doorbell, Harry's neck snapped towards the direction of the home's entrance.

"Oh, hello Mr Doag - "

" -er, yes, thank you, though it's _Doge - "  
_

"Of course, silly me! Please, come inside!"

Greg, who had been enjoying his fourth helping of pancakes until then, poked Harry in the ribs. "Sounds like Holly's got a new boyfriend, eh Harry? You should get a head start on Alice after all!" he said, waggling an eyebrow. Harry winced.

"Actually, they're - "

"Harry dear?" called Holly, a head of close-cropped turquoise hair poking in through the dining hall entrance, "You have a visitor!"

Harry gave his room mates a look of apology as he scurried out of the dining hall and into the entrance corridor, greeted by the matron's assistant and a nervous-looking Professor Doge.

"Good morning Professor," he said, "I didn't expect you so soon."

"Indeed, my boy," the old wizard responded with a smile, casting furtive glances at the walls of the corridor. "we'd agreed on eight sharp, but there's been a slight change in circumstances - nothing to worry about, of course!" he added hurriedly at the boy's concerned expression.

Harry took a deep breath. _This is it, _he thought. He couldn't help but smile in joyful anticipation.

"Well I'm all ready, sir. Shall we?"

"We shall indeed," the older man replied, visibly relaxing, "after me, I should think."

Bidding farewell to the gangly matron's assistant, Doge (and Harry in tow) left the cobblestone building. As they made their way down the immaculate street, Harry couldn't help but ask the man a question.

"Er, Professor?"

"Yes Harry?"

"Where are we going, again?"

Doge slowed down to a halt, scanning the area for something Harry couldn't put his finger on_. _Apparently satisfied, he held his right hand aloft.

Nothing else happened for a few seconds. Harry was beginning to wonder if all of this were a joke, or that he was crazy and the old man in front of him had long been senile. Just as he made to open his mouth, Harry was yet again interrupted. This time he felt, however, was truly worth it.

A gargantuan, violently purple triple-decker bus appeared in front of them, seemingly plucked out from the aether. Pristine gold lettering spelling 'Knight Bus 23C' was plastered across the upper portion of the windshield. Harry staggered in alarm almost instantly, feeling some unknown force grab at his insides.

Doge giggled in delight. "Yes, it is quite a sight, isn't it? They don't call it the Knight Bus for nothing!"

The bus' collapsible doors parted in a smooth motion, unveiling a pimply teen with large, protruding ears and chunky, fair-haired sideburns, dressed in a scruffy purple conductor's uniform.

"Awrite?" he asked the duo in front of him through a gaping yawn.

"Two singles for the Leaky Cauldron, please," Doge requested. The conductor took out a tiny magenta notepad of what looked like tickets, tearing off two.

"Six Knuts, fella. Just the ten if y'want some 'ot chocolate or chicken soup?" the boy said, flashing Doge a toothy grin.

Doge plucked out a batch of bronze coins from his coat pocket, handing them to the uniformed youth as he waved Harry off to board the vehicle. "That's alright, my boy, I believe we shall pass on this occasion."

"No worries, no worries," the boy murmured in reply, craning his head back at an owlish-looking old man with thick glasses, seated in the driver's cab. "Leaky Cauldron, Ernie!" he shouted, swinging across a metal pole and jabbing a shining silver button above him to shut the entrance doors.

Harry whistled at the scene before him; the bus was furnished with several comfy-looking purple armchairs, complete with leather seatbelts and burnished brass clasps. A small cohort of sleepy passengers were in various states of undress; one man even wearing a lifebuoy, giving Harry the impression that he didn't find the armchair very comfortable at all.

"I wouldn't get too cosy," Doge whispered, giving Harry a mysterious wink as they seated themselves, "I suggest you strap up tight, my boy!"

Harry was glad that he heeded the old wizard's advice. The high-octane journey to this 'Leaky Cauldron' that followed was riddled with knife-edge twists, turns, and stalls that threatened to rearrange Harry's organs. He was also fairly sure that a triple-decker bus had no business squeezing between sports cars, but decided to put the entire traumatic experience behind him, the bus skidding as it began to ease up around Harry knew to be Trafalgar Square.

"Central London? Isn't it awfully conspicuous for... _our lot?_" Harry asked Doge in a hushed voice, scrutinising the immediate area for any sight for anything out of the ordinary as they emerged from a particularly dank passageway. After considering the old woman playing a flaming tuba accompanied by a dancing spray-painted man in a top hat on the other side of the road, however, he soon reasoned that it was likely an exercise in futility.

"Not at all, my boy," the wizard replied as they battled their way through the crowded zebra crossing, "all will become clear in time. Follow my lead!"

Halfway down the other side of the road, Harry felt Doge's hand tap his shoulder gently, and followed the direction of an outstretched finger. As he looked up, he laid eyes upon a tiny, shabby-looking pub nestled in between an antique record store and a book shop. Passers-by seemed to give the building an unusually wide berth as they walked past. Harry felt sympathetic; as they drew closer to the entrance laden with a fading charcoal finish, he was sure that the walls themselves were throbbing slightly, his head strangely following suit.

As they opened the door separating the unassuming establishment from its comparatively upmarket surroundings, the throbs against Harry's skull receded, replaced by a pleasant buzz that seemingly permeated even the air that he breathed. As he collected his bearings, Harry's first thought was that the place was indeed magical - it boldly, unashamedly defied the laws of physics. The dim-lit but obviously well-kept tavern, furnished with polished ebony flooring and tables, and immaculate burgundy leather booth seats seemed far too vast and expansive, in his opinion, to bear any resemblance to its titchy, near-dilapidated exterior. _How did_ _it even fit, _he wondered. Yet that, he mused as he observed the merriment and banter amongst the dozens of faintly glowing patrons before him, was precisely what gave the scene its unique charm.

"She's a gem, isn't she?" said Doge as he turned towards Harry, his cheeks radiating with enthusiasm, "The Leaky Cauldron is a very famous place, my boy, all the big names come here! We aren't stopping right now, though - we have much to do yet!" He looked at his watch, and with a panicked squeak, he grabbed Harry's hand before scrambling through the pub, tipping his hat to a balding, toothless wizard behind the bar as they left down the rear corridor.

Had an ordinary child happened upon what the pair encountered next - an entrance to a chilly courtyard populated by dusty, wooden barrels, cordoned off by a large brick wall - it probably would have been an anticlimactic experience considering the recent passage of events. For Harry, though, it was anything but.

There was something alive behind that wall. It beckoned to him, and deep within his chest, Harry found the same yearning calling out to the unknown entity... as if it were trying to grasp past the wall, hopelessly clawing at it. The bricks adamantly refused to indicate anything of the sort - no lights, no buzzing, no noises this time - but Harry knew this was part of the ploy to keep him away. It was almost domineering in its denial of the wonder that certainly lay beyond it; a colossal dam devoid of sensation, immutable and impenetrable. Unbeknownst to himself, Harry snarled in disgust. Doge looked at him quizzically.

"Erm, quite," he mumbled, trotting up to the brick wall. Drawing his wand from his maroon coat pocket, the ancient wizard tapped a few surely random bricks in an anti-clockwise motion.

The dam had burst, and its prisoner cried in victory.

"I'm _home_," Harry mouthed. A single tear rolled down his cheek as his knees buckled under his own weight. The tear was followed by another, then a river, and finally a flood, as if to douse the intense affectionate warmth that erupted from beyond the courtyard.

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."


	4. Elphias Goes To Town

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **A goblin does the books, Elphias eats ice cream, and a young witch takes Harry prisoner.

* * *

**Chapter Four - Elphias Goes To Town**

_"I'm home..."_

As the barrier before the courtyard vanished, an immense wave of raw magic surged towards the young wizard, engulfing him in its warm embrace. Harry had never been here before; he wouldn't have remembered, at the very least, but the inexplicable feeling of familiarity and comfort was too powerful to ignore.

_"Harry..." _it called, _"har... harry... Harry..."_

"Harry!"

"Wha- ?" Harry's head jerked back, his senses returning - he wasn't sure when they had disappeared. Staring down at him was a stricken Doge, who quickly helped him to his feet. The brick wall that formed the edge of the courtyard was gone, a large archway standing in its place. They stared at each other for a while longer, until the elder man's eyes narrowed in comprehension.

"You," he whispered slowly, "you feel it... don't you?"

"Yes," replied Harry, glassy-eyed and smiling giddily, absently wiping tear tracks from his cheeks, "what _is _it?"

"_Magic_, my boy," the old wizard said, "the magic of London's wizards. The magic of the goblins, the hags, the elves, and most of all, the _Alley."_

"The what?" asked Harry, before laying eyes upon the most ridiculous display of town planning he had ever seen.

"Ah, right."

"This, Harry, is Diagon Alley!" Doge said jubilantly, rubbing his hands together in delight. "It appears that you can _feel _its magic! I have a hypothesis, of sorts."

"What do you think it means, sir?" asked Harry, his voice tinged with more than a little concern.

"Oh, you must stop worrying, Harry," the wizard scoffed with a wave of his hand, "you're in little danger. I believe this enhanced sensitivity to magic stems from your intimate awareness of your own powers, as well as your prolonged detachment from areas of high magical activity. In fact, it's not uncommon for Muggle-born children to present a similar reaction, albeit not as pronounced..."

"Hm, maybe you're right." Harry pondered the idea, looking down at his shoes, "I mean, I've felt it since the Knight Bus appeared, and then when we walked through that pub. If you're right, though - and I don't mean to question your judgement Professor - but _if _you are, then why didn't I feel _your_ magic when we first met?"

"You do have a point there," said Doge, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "I'm nowhere near an expert but it's a concern that is easily addressed. You see, you have a degree of control over your own magic already. You are intimately aware of what one wizard's presence feels like after feeling your own - it's almost like background noise to you now. But a whole community? Not to mention other creatures and the ambient magic in a space such as this."

"Yeah, that does make a lot of sense," Harry responded with a satisfied grin, which quickly faded as it gave way to a perplexed look. "Talking of spaces, though, how does all of this fit? That pub was definitely larger on the inside, and this?" he said, gesturing at what he assumed was a street before them.

"Need you even ask?" Doge chuckled at Harry's huff of dissatisfaction before inhaling with purpose, examining his surroundings with owl-like turns of the head. "We'll have to cut this magical theory lesson short, I'm afraid, to do a bit of fieldwork. Did you bring your supplies list?" Harry nodded, taking out the piece of parchment that he'd re-read countless times over the past week:

**_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_**

**_UNIFORM_**

_**First year students will require:**_

_****Three sets of plain works robes (black)*  
Three pairs of leather shoes and/or boots (black)**  
_****Three Hogwarts-issue ****_cravats  
_****One set of dress robes****_  
**One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear**  
**One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)**  
**One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)  
****  
**  
*For girls:** five sets of Hogwarts-issue tunics (white), skirts (charcoal or black) and/or hose** (charcoal or black)  
*For boys:** five sets of Hogwarts-issue shirts (white) and hose (charcoal or black)  
****_

**Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags**

**_COURSE BOOKS_**

**_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_**

_****The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk  
The Worldly Witch by Chroniculus Punnet  
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling  
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch  
_****The Big British Hymnal by Orpheus Rumpett****_  
An Introduction to Enchantment by Caspian Watts  
_**One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi**_ by Phyllida Spore  
**The Essential Alphabet of Magic (Volume 1) by Apollyon Chadwick  
Numerology and Grammatica by Eudoxus Ambrose**  
Five-Hundred Exercises for the Fledgling Sorcerer by Quentin Trimble****  
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger****  
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander**  
**_

**_OTHER EQUIPMENT _**

_**1 magical focus (wand, ring OR bracer)**_  
_**1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)**_  
_**1 set - glass or crystal phials**_  
_**1 set -**_ _**silver **_**_engraving _****_kit_**  
_**1 set - brass scales**_

**_Regarding pets: Students are permitted to bring a magical familiar at their parents' discretion. Parents MUST, however, obtain special permission from a Governor of the Board should they wish to bring a creature assigned a XXX classification by the Ministry Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.* Familiars with a XXXX classification or higher are NOT permitted under any circumstances._**

**_*Half-Kneazles are an exception to this clause, and are permitted without prior Board consultation._**

**_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_**

"What's with these clothes, anyway?" Harry asked, eyeing a crowd of peculiar wizards and witches trying to win a silver broomstick in an auction, most of them dressed in similar garb to those mentioned on the list. "I half-hoped the list was a joke. Do all wizards dress like that?"

"Robe, shirt and hose, my boy," Doge replied with more than a hint of disinterest, "the staple ensemble of 'current' wizarding attire in our humble Metropolitan Britannia. Witches are a tad more adventurous in their tastes - Muggle fashion is rather popular among the younger ladies, I believe. Personally I, as you can see for yourself, like to go the whole ten miles!"

A long, painful pause followed. Harry sneezed.

"Hm... Gringotts first, I think," Doge muttered with a faraway look.

"Where, sir?"

"Gringotts is the goblin-run bank for wizardkind, most magical beings, really. In our world, Harry, international finance has long been the domain of the Goblin Nation. You'd think they'd be happy enough with that, but..." He narrowed his eyes at Harry's raised eyebrow. "Oh, you'll see what I mean. Follow me, once more!"

Of all the magical experiences he'd had so far that day, Diagon Alley made the least sense to Harry. It definitely was a wondrous sight; the hordes of adults and children alike wearing attire that wouldn't have been far out-of-place in a Renaissance Fair looked pretty cool in his opinion, and the rather aggressive vendor claiming that his Limited Edition All-Purpose Abjuration Powder repelled Lethifolds didn't bother him that much, whatever any of that was. What concerned Harry more than anything else was the surely imminent collapse of a least a third of the buildings he and Doge had passed on the way to the Gringotts Bank.

The area possessed a quirky sort of beauty in spades, but suffered from an abject lack of straight lines. Haphazardly erected flats of timber, slate and steel were strewn across cobbled roads that twisted and turned into the horizon. Some actually lay on what should have been their sides while others - especially those of substantial height - often veered to the side, casting foreboding shadows over jagged pavements. Harry was sure he even spotted one wooden shack suspended in mid-air, apparently supported by nothing but the air below it. The presumed owner didn't seem to care, as a shrivelled old wizard hurled a pot of boiling water through the makeshift window, incensing a middle-aged witch selling Puffskein Pillows directly below.

Not a few minutes of trekking through the absurd scene, a towering, snow-white monolith came into view, dwarfing the blocks of the ramshackle plots that surrounded it.

"There it is," said Doge, his tone gruff as he poked a finger in its general direction. "The London branch of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Make sure to keep an eye or three open - it generally isn't a place for children."

As they climbed a set of polished stairs leading to the bank's entrance, they met a peculiar looking man keeping watch in front of burnished bronze doors. He was more than a head shorter than Harry, wore a scarlet and gold uniform and had grotesque features, though that could have been due to the permanent snarl he seemed all too willing to wear. He bared pointy teeth at the pair as they walked past, and Harry was sure whatever he growled under his breath was a particularly nasty curse word.

"Is he a -" whispered Harry wide-eyed as the goblin snapped his fingers, the bronze doors closing behind them.

"Indeed he is," Doge replied melodically, giving Harry a patronising smile, "and you understand what I meant now, I gather?"

"Not really, he looked really hard done by. You don't happen to know him?" Doge gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

The interior of the building was even more than its share of intimidating. Several more guards closely resembling the foul-mouthed doorman flanked the entrance hall, which ended in a set of silver doors engraved with a poem of some sort:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_  
_Of what awaits the sin of greed_  
_For those who take, but do not earn,_  
_Must pay most dearly in their turn._  
_So if you seek beneath our floors_  
_A treasure that was never yours,_  
_Thief, you have been warned, beware_  
_Of finding more than treasure there._

"I can't help but think that writing 'here be dragons' would be more efficient. You know, because magic," Harry mused, before tittering at Doge's blank expression. "A bad joke a day keeps the doctor away, Professor."

"My boy, are you sure you don't have the Sight?"

"Well if you're talking about clairvoyance or something, then no. I'd be filthy rich otherwise. A millionaire orphan... you could only write it!" Harry chuckled, unperturbed by Doge's pointed silence as they pushed through the silver doors, revealing a grand marble reception hall, with queues from either side that seemed to extend for several miles.

Over a hundred goblins bustled in and out of what had to be thousands of doors, while older-looking clerks attended several large counters. Dozens of parchment scrolls circled the hall high above them, presumably an assortment of client statements and internal memos. Harry noticed that most of the human customers present were either especially laid back or very uncomfortable. _Must be some really bad blood here, _he thought, as they edged towards one of the few service desks that remained conspicuously empty, where a brass plaque reading '_YOU ARE BEING SERVED BY: BOGROD - 7:00 TO 19:00_' sat atop the marble counter.

"So Professor," he said after some time eyeing the queue beside them, "we're not here to set up an account, are we? Flying paper and goblins in old suits are all very fascinating, but I wouldn't fancy queueing like that even once. We've got loads to do... Holly's even made me a birthday cake. I can't be late for that."

Shifting uncomfortably, Doge cleared his throat. "Well, no. You already have a personal account that your parents opened on your behalf many years ago. We're here to reactivate it, as it was managed under the estate of -"

"Potter, Harry James?" a grisly voice boomed before them. Jolted back into reality, Harry and Doge found the service desk was no longer vacant. Behind the marble counter sat an ancient goblin in a black suit and neck-cloth wearing silver-framed spectacles, his eyes narrowed beneath them.

"Er yes, that's me," Harry said through a gulp, "how did you know?"

"Your handler," he replied coolly, his eyes fixated on the older wizard, "I know _him_ well. You were late, Mr Doge."

"Apologies, Bogrod," the man said, stiffening. He was making quite an effort to avoid the goblin's gaze. "There was a spot of technical trouble on the Knight Bus, which -"

"_Never _breaks down," Bogrod finished for him with a smirk, "and I needn't remind you that it was in fact Sir Albus who requested that our meeting be rescheduled. I would hope that writing for the_ Prophet _isn't losing you much sleep?" His black eyes appeared to glint with cruel satisfaction as Doge flushed, his eyes darting everywhere but in the teller's general direction. "You are in possession of Mr Potter's key, I presume?"

Doge nodded furiously, producing a tiny, ornate silver key from his jacket pocket.

"Then if you'd please follow me," the goblin teller said, gesturing to one of the many identical doors behind him, "we can try to resolve the matter at hand in record time."

Doing just as Bogrod had asked, Harry and Doge trailed behind the teller as he led them down a passageway behind one of the doors. Soon enough, they approached a golden rimmed, porthole-like recess on the left side of the dry-stone corridor. Bogrod snapped his fingers, and as the porthole melted away, beckoned his customers to walk through. Harry did so hesitantly, and was more than faintly surprised upon entering the comparatively ordinary study. In fact, the olive-green cabinets behind the plain white workstation looked as if they could have been lifted from any of the thousands of near identical offices in the City.

Climbing onto an iron chair behind the table, the goblin teller waved an open palm. A cabinet near the top left rumbled slightly, and a thick, leather-bound file materialised on top of the desk. Doge apparently took this as his cue to sit down, with Harry following suit.

Bogrod shuffled around and plopped down onto his seat, frighteningly long fingers intertwined as he regarded the two wizards in front of him with a calculating look. "Mr Potter," he said slowly, reading from a page near the end of the file, "Harry James, son of James Charlus and Lily Marie, born on July thirty-first in nineteen-eighty at one minute past midnight. Previous guardians were a Vernon Paul and Petunia Christine Dursley, and you are currently... a ward of court, under the Family Division of Her Majesty's High Court of Justice in England. This is correct?"

"Yes, to my knowledge," Harry replied, somewhat uncertainly.

The goblin stared at him. "Right - in that case, I'll just need to perform a short identity assessment," he said as he opened a drawer of the workstation, removing a stack of glass swab-like objects before handing one to the young wizard. "Simply graze the inside of your cheek with the end - no further action required."

Harry warily looked at the teller, then the swab, and then at Doge, who urged him to comply with an encouraging smile. He traced the wall of his right cheek as requested, and upon examining it, he noticed that the glass material had acquired a distinct coppery colour. He returned the swab to Bogrod, who turned to another page with his free hand. He tapped the file with the coppery instrument, nodding to himself and clicking his tongue as he closed the book.

"We have a match," he muttered, glancing at the child again, before adjusting his glasses. "As such, Mr Potter, I am obligated to inform you of a couple of important matters before we reactivate your account today. Is this acceptable?" Harry nodded. "Good to know. First of all, in this file I have a document processed by the British Wizarding Probate Registry on behalf of your parents. The caretaker of your estate until you come of age- "

"My caretaker?"

The goblin sniffed in contempt. "Please do not interrupt me."

"Sor- " started Harry, though Doge laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"According to the document," continued Bogrod, "following your first year of magical education, your parents wished for custodial rights to be transferred to our esteemed Sir Albus Dumbledore, who would in turn appoint a Potter-approved proxy should he be unavailable at any time. Presumably the appointed candidate would be Mr Doge here. You are due to meet Sir Albus within the next ninety days, as mandated by the Ministry's Wizarding Minors Welfare Office.

"However, we at Gringotts require the approval of said minor to permanently relinquish any keys to your caretaker. Is this understood, Mr Potter?"

Harry felt uneasy. This man, _Sir _Albus, the most powerful sorcerer in history according to Professor Doge, was to be his official guardian. Even if he was uncommonly busy, why hadn't Harry even met him yet? Realising he had no choice, however, it being his birth parents' wishes, Harry inclined his head with feigned confidence.

The goblin teller suddenly thrust an inkpot and a black feather to a dumbstruck Harry before flicking through the file.

"Sign here, and here," he muttered, pointing a impressively clawed finger at several moving fields on the open parchment. To make matters worse, the print was impossibly tiny: Harry couldn't make heads or tails of the several dozen paragraphs that proved even shyer than the signature prompts themselves.

_Is ink _supposed_ to move like that?_

He wasn't a lawyer, let alone a wizarding one, but Harry didn't particularly care for the goblin's urgency. He looked to Doge for reassurance; the ancient wizard nodded at the inkpot, grinning at Harry with unrestrained fervor.

Harry acquiesced, slowly dipping the feather into the pot under Bogrod's gaze. He said nothing, so Harry assumed he hadn't made a fool of himself just yet. He scrawled his initials on each field before they could disappear off the edge of the page.

Bogrod grunted in approval as he pulled a weathered wooden block out of thin air, stamping it down on the bottom of the open parchment.

"_Thank the Wild..._ Onto our second item of business, then? I must inform you, Mr Potter, that once you reach the age of majority, which in the Wizarding Union of Britannia will be on your seventeenth birthday, you shall obtain control of all contents and assets managed under the technically dormant Potter Estate."

"What, exactly, do you mean by 'technically'?" Doge inquired, levelling a suspicious gaze on the goblin.

"The Potter Estate, as you are well aware, Mr Doge," the goblin said quietly, meeting the wizard's eyes with equal scrutiny, "claims a fifty-three per cent share of the Potlab Corporation, which is fully operational within the British territories and beyond, and is currently entrusted to other shareholders within your... _collective_. Not public knowledge of course, but you are aware nonetheless."

"Ah yes, that's right," Doge mumbled, shutting up immediately after. Harry quickly glanced at the skittish old wizard, his opinion of him rapidly dwindling despite himself. For all his kindness and helpful knowledge so far, the man seemed easily intimidated by almost everyone.

"My parents had a business?" he asked, turning back to the teller.

"Your _family _owned the business, Mr Potter. You shall also obtain the family home which is... the, ah, Crucible... Unplottable. Its location is to be disclosed to your guardian following your first year of school. The contents of the Potter vault are sealed and shall remain so until you reach majority, and the maximum amount of money you are permitted to withdraw from your personal account has been limited to two hundred Galleons per annum. A further three hundred Galleons per annum is to be entrusted to your guardian to cover tuition fees, supplies and general upkeep."

"So that's... what, three thousand of these Galleons?" asked Harry. "And there's still more - in a _vault?_ Is there an exchange rate into pound sterling or something?"

Doge began to cough loudly, his brow and cheeks bright red. Harry was certain the man was not long for this world.

"Do you think me a _criminal, _Mr Potter?" Bogrod snarled, his voice dangerously low.

"Er, no, I didn't mean - " Harry stammered, but stopped as the goblin raised a finger. There was an awkward pause after Doge's coughing fit eventually subsided.

"A momentary lapse of judgement on my part - you must understand that it is outlawed for states with seats in the International Confederation of Wizards to permit the exchange of magical and Muggle currencies. Whether there are ways around it is neither here nor there, but as you have only been recently introduced to our world, you were not to know... apologies."

Harry had the distinct impression that the goblin didn't do that often. Then again, he didn't sound (and certainly didn't look) sincere.

Bogrod cleared his throat, and continued as if nothing had occurred.

"I suppose it would be prudent to explain how our currency works. The wizarding world, and by extension the international community of magical beings, has its single currency in the Galleon. A golden Galleon is worth seventeen silver Sickles, and is in turn equivalent to four-hundred-and-ninety-three bronze Knuts. A newspaper, let's say the Daily Prophet -" he snarled at Doge, the wizard squeaking in response, "- is priced at one Knut, while a post owl would generally cost at least eight Galleons. Your family estate, from the most recent record, was estimated at -" he paused to consult the pages of the leather-bound file, "- have a look, Mr Potter."

Accepting the file from Bogrod, Harry's eyes scanned the statement on the parchment before him. As he laid eyes on the net figure, he gasped. His mouth moved, but no words came. He closed the file and carefully handed it back towards the teller.

"Off the record, Mr Potter, you might be regarded a most unusual wizard for your station." the goblin said.

"How come?"

"Hogwarts is a most prestigious institution, Mr Potter. While the wealthier circles of our world will no doubt be aware of your upbringing given the recent press, they will be unable to relate. I would assume, however, that you share the same attitude towards blatant displays of opulence that was characteristic of your ancestors. Honour them, young wizard."

"I'll... do my best, sir," Harry responded awkwardly, gazing at the cabinets behind the goblin. Doge, whom Harry had almost completely forgotten about, clapped the boy on the back with a wheezy laugh.

"You'll do just fine, my boy," the man said with vigour, "just fine! Will that be all, Bogrod?"

The goblin hopped back on top of his seat, waving a palm as he did before. The same cabinet rumbled, but this time, a small leather drawstring pouch appeared on top of the file instead. As he sat back down, he turned to the younger wizard once more.

"This pouch is tied to your account, Mr Potter. It currently contains fifteen Galleons and five hundred Sickles, and will automatically refill at the fifty Sickle mark, that is, until you reach your annual limit."

"Magic is brilliant," the boy breathed, gazing at the pouch in awe.

* * *

Even as they left Gringotts, Harry couldn't take his eyes off of his new Sickle Bag, mulling over all that it symbolised. Bogrod mentioned that Hogwarts taught many rich students; he was one of them, it seemed, but he doubted that any of them had only been recently informed. He ran up to Doge who, for a wizard his age, was walking away from the bank at a consistent and remarkable pace.

'Professor," he called, tugging at the sleeve of the man's jacket. Snapping back into focus, Doge ceased his frantic escape to acknowledge the younger wizard. 'I'm still a little confused about this. That company... how did my family do it?'

Doge smiled down at the boy, patting him on the head. Harry did not appreciate it, but decided against saying anything as the ancient wizard began to speak.

'Wizards, Harry, are no different from Muggles in this regard. Some are just old money, others find an angle. Your family, though, was all of both! It's all about _metal_, my boy.' He grinned widely at the boy's furrowed brows. "Now while a wizard's magic can do just about anything if he knows how to do it _and _has the _balls_ to do it, some things are just plain difficult. Transforming matter into a single, pure transition metal on an industrial scale - you know, your irons and your zincs and whatnot - is an absolute nightmare, and Conjuring them from nothing even worse. Treble the difficulty for most precious metals. Anything more than six-carat gold? Make yourself a Philosopher's Stone, but then working at all would become redundant!

"Either way, your family's had a knack for doing just that. Not pure gold of course," he said, chuckling as Harry gasped, "the goblins are miles further than us on that one, but even their Galleons still come from the ground, be sure of that. No, the Potters happened to have an uncanny ability for Transfiguration: the branch of Sorcery used to physically alter an object's form. That's how Gil the Potter joined the Wizard's Council way back when. They say it all started with cauldrons - copper, brass, pewter - and then the business just ballooned. There are still manufacturers under the Potlab banner, but the bulk of the profits come from raw material production. High quality alloys, mass-produced in alchemical plants. That's a blend of Transfiguration and Potioneering theory, since I see your cogs turning."

"I did wonder that," said Harry, remembering a library book he'd read on alchemy a few months prior. While Doge made no mention of philosophy or the transformation of the soul (if it even existed, maybe that's what magic was?), he'd certainly inferred that wizards were running circles around their Muggle counterparts. "So I'll have to carry this all on, Professor?"

"Well, you're not obliged by any means, my boy," Doge replied as he waved off a wizard in a purple top hat, "though most generations of Potters have done just that. Well, that or blasting other wizards to smithereens. Your father was famously good at it, I must say." Harry paled considerably as the old wizard barked a dry laugh.

Maybe he'd underestimated Doge after all. He then heard the man _squeal_, and decided to defer any further judgement for a later date.

"You _must_ try Fortescue's ice cream, Harry. You'll never look back!" He gripped Harry's wrist with youthful strength, and bolted towards a large blue and cream-themed establishment. Several garden umbrellas were fixed above tables in front of the shop window. Sitting on one chair (as well as a stack of newspapers, Harry noted) was a tiny old wizard with a bushy, silver moustache cheerfully digging into a relatively massive bowl of ice cream in comparison to his size. The man knew Doge somehow, as he frantically waved his hand upon noticing the pair.

"Elphias!" he squeaked, "By Jove, he's done it again! The man's a genius, you have to buy this!"

"Filius, old chap! How are you?" Doge wheezed back, leaning towards the man's bowl in fascination as they reached his table. "My, it does look very appetizing... perhaps a test taste fir -"

"_No!" _the tiny man-made a small but swift gesture with his non-spoon hand, and the ice cream bowl suddenly flew two feet in the air, remaining surprisingly intact as Doge's head and index finger hit the table. "I'd expect such behaviour from Horace, but you, Elphias? Honestly man, there's a box of spoons right here!"

"I suppose I may have been a tad piggish," Doge said sheepishly, motioning Harry to take a seat. "I haven't even eaten breakfast yet! Oh, where are my manners? Harry, this is Professor Flitwick. He's a Charms teacher at Hogwarts, our Master in fact! Dabbles in the Artificing class too... Filius, Harry is James and Lily's son."

"Oh my," Flitwick breathed, adjusting his glasses as he peered at Harry. "He certainly is a Potter. How do you do, Harry?"

"It's nice to meet you, sir," Harry said politely, extending a hand that was vigorously shaken in turn. "Just trying to make heads and tails of everything, really."

"He's just like Lily, you know, so inquisitive!" said Doge, shaking his head.

Soon enough, they were served by a flossy-haired wizard that Harry assumed was Mr Fortescue, or Florean as Doge had dubbed him. Over copious amounts of Boom Berry-flavoured ice cream, he and Flitwick proceeded to regale Harry with tales of their own Hogwarts schooling.

"Now of course, Albus never was one to turn down sweets," Doge said, almost bursting with mirth, "so long story short, we got the Chocolate Frog boxes, and the end of the Squid's tentacle is still Vanished!" He shared a riotous laugh with Flitwick as Harry sampled the impossibly delicious treat before him, intrigued by the prospect of meeting this Giant Squid at his new school but not sure what to think of his soon-to-be guardian's views on animal rights. "A born sorcerer, he was!"

"Professors?" Harry suddenly called, looking up from his ice cream. "I just wanted to ask - you've both used a few terms to describe, well, people like us. Sorcerer, warlock, witch, wizard... Do they all mean the same thing? I wouldn't want to cause offence if not."

"Some yes," Flitwick replied, picking up two unused wooden spoons and presenting them to Harry, "others not so much. For starters, witches and wizards are pretty much the same. You would simply call a female wizard a witch, and a male witch a wizard. I've yet to come across a piece of magic that couldn't be cast by either sex."

"I wouldn't recommend climbing the stairs to the girls' dormitories though, certain mortal peril," Doge grumbled, looking away.

"Why would I want to do that, Professor?" Harry asked innocently, as Flitwick burst into a fit of giggles.

"Ah, the lecherous yearnings of a misspent youth," he cried, wiping away a tear, "but back on topic. The warlock, as Professor Doge may tell you in greater detail come your third year, was historically the licensed judge, jury and executioner in his local community. Nowadays, they simply preside as the judiciary arm of the Ministry. The earlier definition is still sometimes used to refer to duellists of distinguished skill.

"Now a sorcerer is one who casts spells using the age-old formula of motivation, gesture and incantation. All sorcerers are wizards, Mr Potter, but few wizards are capable of even the most basic sorcery without wands containing preset spells. Of course, you needn't worry. Hogwarts students are accepted on the premise that they have the potential to perform a range of magic, plus with your Augo Profile, at least according to Albus..."

"So, you're saying we have more magic? And, that test I took... I'm not going to explode, am I?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Oh no, Mr Potter," Flitwick chirped, "you'd be surprised by how many times I've heard that from promising students who take the Profile. You see, magic doesn't have a volume or level, as such. It's a supernatural property that several species exhibit in many ways, but you don't have more or _less _magic than a Flobberworm in truth. Magic simply _is_, Mr Potter. It has arbitrarily, to our knowledge, chosen a few characteristics that appear to conform to the laws of physics, but we cannot quantify it. We can, however, determine how resonant or connected one is with their ability to use magic, and that goes for dragons, trolls, and many other creatures and beasts.

He shuffled forward in his seat. "The Augo Profile - named after Josef Augo, who was famed for his philosophy on the composition of magic - examines how well you harness can this inherent property we share. It takes your intellect and personality traits into account, your body's experiences with magic and finally, how aware you are of the magic inside and around you. Creativity, reasoning and self-awareness are the holy trinity of what makes wizards powerful, collectively contributing to what magical theoreticians and philosophers alike refer to as _wisdom. _Wisdom, Mr Potter, is the heart of the wizard's relationship with magic and the driving force of his willpower, as solidarity is the same for the Goblin Nation, and so on."

"Indeed," Doge supplied as he finished the last scoop of his dessert, "and to think that HF lot commissioned the 11/17 Committee to develop the test as anti Muggle-born propaganda. The fools! A wife of one of the Governors heads that group now. Isn't that right, Filius?"

"I wouldn't know," the tiny man muttered, "politics never has been my cup of tea, and what with the Ministry being full of these reactionary types, especially the Wizengamot, I gave up on remembering names a long time ago."

"Well, who knows," Doge said, laying hands on Harry's shoulders, who closed his eyes in frustration at being manhandled for the umpteenth time, "our Harry just might change all of that someday. The forty-ninth Chief-wizard of Dumnonia, I can see it now..."

"So Professor," Harry said quickly, fighting the urge to ask what a 'chief of pneumonia' was, "I was hoping we might be able to get a start on the supplies list?"

"Ah, he's eager!" Doge wheezed. "So, you want to embark on a solo mission! Not to worry, my boy, I'll get your books and equipment. All I need you to do is pick up a uniform and your wand. Now that'll be an experience!"

"So I'm definitely getting a wand? Doesn't the letter say you can choose -"

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Doge. "A wand will be your best friend, I guarantee, at least for what you'll be learning at Hogwarts!"

With that, the two bid their farewells to Flitwick, and Doge gave Harry instructions on how to find both his robes and wand before meeting him outside the courtyard for supper, though "you'll know Ollivander's when you see it" was pretty much the only information he received about the only Hogwarts-approved wand shop in the Alley. _But with all the wizards around here, _Harry thought, _surely someone else can give me proper directions?_ Ignoring such concerns for the moment, Harry made his way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a cosy outfitter's shop on the other side of the street.

For all his misgivings earlier that day, Harry actually found wizarding attire to be rather comfortable. He reasoned that as he wouldn't be donning robes in Oakwood, there would be little to no embarrassment in wearing them at all, save being asked if he preferred his hose "baggy or slim fit". Madam Malkin, a squat witch of pleasant humour, was evidently twice the businesswoman as she was a seamstress, as Harry ended up leaving with an order containing a surplus of everyday wear, a whole five Galleons poorer for his trouble. Doge promised to pick everything up once it was ready, so Harry promptly left in search of his new wand.

It would turn out, as a young sales witch flogging Lizard Belts would tell him, that Ollivander's workshop was located on the other side of Diagon Alley. While Harry had no problems fending for himself, he still questioned this Dumbledore character's judgements in choosing a responsible proxy. Lost in thought as he navigated his way to the south side of the Alley, Harry suddenly found himself winded on the hard cobbled floor, his vision obscured by a mass of bushy chestnut-coloured hair.

"Oi, Hermione! Don't be like that!" a voice shouted from a distance. A weight lifted itself off the young wizard, and he tried to get back on his feet as quickly as possible. As he looked around to find who had floored him, he noticed a trio of red-headed boys sprinting towards him. A small arm wrapped itself around Harry's neck as he felt something hard poke him in the side. _Damn, probably a wand, _he thought, deciding not to make any sudden moves. His captor must have been considerably shorter, as they had to arch his back towards them to keep him firmly in place among a slowly forming crowd.

"Don't bloody believe it... she's taken a hostage!" one of the red-headed boys groaned with a gobsmacked expression as they arrived at the scene. Harry's captor dug the wand into Harry's ribs, causing him to grunt in discomfort. Numerous cries along the lines of _"Someone call the Trolls!_" could be heard as the crowd grew larger.

"I will _not _go back with you. They can Obliviate me too for all I care!" a feminine voice shouted behind his ear.

"Bah, it's a Mudblood stickin' a Mudblood," a stout wizard jeered as he stomped through the crowd, "nothin' to see here, lads and lasses!"

A considerable portion of the crowd murmured in agreement as they prepared to leave. With the road clearing up, Harry took his chance to reason with the young witch.

"Look lady, I can get us out of here if -"

"How," she whispered harshly, "when _I'm_ the one with the wand, hmm?"

"Look, I just need you to hold my hand - agh!" He grunted again as she pressed the wand even deeper into his abdomen. Harry was sure he felt a sharp sting that time. "Not like that," he spat, "I just need you to trust me. Doesn't look like anyone else is on your side right now."

There was a tense silence, the crowd pretty much gone and the trio of boys standing helplessly, all their hopes of retrieving the girl seemingly abandoned. Eventually, Harry felt her arm slack, only to grip his left hand as she broke off into a sprint, dragging him in tow.

With the red-headed boys hot on their heels, Harry tightly shut his eyes, concentrating on the weight of the girl falling on top of him just minutes earlier. He knew this was risky; he'd never transported himself with another person, and he had no idea what would happen if it went wrong, but he had no space to ruminate over the consequences. His hearing and sense of touch faded quickly, signifying that he'd fostered a full connection with his power. He put all of his thought into moving somewhere dark_, _somewhere hidden_, _somewhere empty_, _but most importantly _here_...

His senses would return as quickly as they had left him. Feeling solid stone ground beneath his feet once more, Harry opened his eyes to relative darkness, only to receive a sharp slap immediately after. Cradling his cheek, Harry stalked off in anger towards a sliver of light which he assumed to lead back to the Alley, before a hand spun him around to give him a first look at his assailant's face.

"What in _blazes _were you thinking?" she hissed. From what he could glean in the poor lighting conditions of the area, the girl was about his age and indeed a few inches shorter than him, with dark brown eyes and two remarkably large front teeth. Upon realising how absurd the scene must have looked on the outside, Harry allowed himself a short laugh.

"I know, right?" he replied with a wry grin. "Would've bumped into someone with my eyes closed like that!"

'Not that,' she muttered, her eyes narrowed, "I meant your little Apparition stunt there! You could have killed us both!"

'Hey, I just saved your hide back there!' Harry shot back, his voice rising before he paused in thought. 'Well, I think. What _did _I just save you from?"

"Nothing really," the girl grumbled, falling back onto a crate that leaned against one of the walls, "though I don't really want _them _to Obliviate me, otherwise I can't get -" she stopped at Harry's questioning look. "Oh. It's a memory wipe. You're Muggle-born too, I assume?"

"Er, no. My parents were a wizard and witch, but I found out about all of this a week ago," he replied matter-of-factly, squatting down next to the girl. "I'm Harry Potter. You're Hermione?"

"Yes," she said boldly, "_Granger. _Hermione _Granger._ At least they let me keep that. Listen, Harry Potter. I hope for your sakes that you don't have anyone who isn't magic to particularly care about, because as of this week, you'll never see them again."

"_What _did you -"

"Just shut up and listen!" she said, her eyes hard as steel. _"They_ are going to erase your existence from the Muggle world. _They _will tell you that it's for Muggles' own good as well as yours, that you're in danger staying there and so are your family. They stole my _parents_, Harry Potter. Ten months, one week and two days ago. Just be glad they can't do that to you... no offence meant."

"You're mental."

Hermione snorted. "Maybe I am, considering the circumstances," she said, "but what's that got to do with anything? Which school are you going to attend, by the way?"

"Hogwarts," Harry whispered, slightly unnerved by the witch's consistent sincerity.

"Mm. It's your birthday, correct?" Harry nodded. "Yes, many happy returns. They're probably doing it today."

"Right," Harry said awkwardly, edging backwards, "well I've got to find Ollivander's wand shop, memory wipes or otherwise. You wouldn't happen to know the way?"

Hermione gave him a baleful glare, pushing past him to squint at the sliver of daylight that faintly illuminated the alcove. After a second or two, she turned back to the boy with a bored expression on her face.

"Right in front of you, if you'll believe me on that?" she said, crossing her arms.

"Thank you. I'll see you around, I guess?"

"Yes, at Hogwarts. See you there," she said archly.

Giving the girl as wide a berth as possible, he was just about to start travelling down the narrow pathway before being stopped yet again.

"Harry?" He turned his head to look back at Hermione, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

'Happy birthday... have a good one.'

* * *

Harry desperately tried to shake the events of the past ten minutes from his head as he approached the venerable shop.

_Was she telling the truth?_

The question plagued him as soon as he left the dark alcove, not daring to look back. Why would she have lied? What reason would she have? Hermione did seem genuinely distraught, which he felt laid even more credence to her case. His situation was markedly different, however. There was no way they could wipe the memories of a whole orphanage, surely... Either way, the encounter warranted a long discussion with Professor Doge later on.

Harry felt a smooth, chilling cascade of _something _wash over him as he edged closer to the ancient plot. He suspected it might have something to do with its age; just above the rickety shop, a sign read '_Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C' , _and a solitary wand lay on a faded purple cushion behind the dusty window. Disregarding its modest appearance, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that his fate in this world would be significantly affected by whatever transpired here. Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed the worn door handle to meet with the wandmaker.

As he crossed the threshold, a tinkling bell was the only indication of his entry, his footsteps silent against the weathered mahogany floor. The store was tiny, even compared to the cramped plan of Madam Malkin's shop, though it was filled to the brim with boxes: wand cases, Harry surmised. The lack of sound only contributed to the room's mystery; the floors, the walls, the counter and even the layers of dust seemed to tingle with power. He was about to open his mouth to announce his entry before he was beaten for the final time that day.

"A Potter," a soft, deep voice spoke, echoing across the room. "I've been waiting for one - it's been too long."

Harry whirled around, trying to discern the direction of the voice's source. "Hello?" he said, mostly in vain.

Suddenly, the boy spotted an old man sat on top of a spindly chair, right in front of him.

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter. It's a pleasure to finally have you here," he said placidly, giant silvery eyes scrutinising him through glasses that certainly didn't fit his face.

"Forgive my rudeness, sir, but how do you know my name? How does _everyone _know my name?" Harry asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"Almost all Potter men looked alike in their day," the old man said, slowly rising from his chair, "as do many of the Bones women, most male Smiths and pretty much every Weasley. The vestiges of an old line; not necessarily pure, as one might define the word, but old nonetheless."

"Oh," came Harry's eloquent reply as his eyes searched the shop, "so you're Mr Ollivander then, sir?"

"I am indeed Garrick Ollivander," the man said with a graceful bow, "and I am honoured to serve yet another Potter in their quest for a companion. I sold both your parents their wands, you know. Yes, your mother - you have _her_ eyes, actually - bonded with a willow wand. Ten inches, a lock from the mane of a Corsican Longhair, quite springy... well-suited for Charmwork and enchanting. Your father, on the other hand, preferred a mahogany wood - eleven inches and Hebridean heartstring - pliable, had quite a bit more kick to it. Very good for Transfiguration, I recall."

Harry didn't know how to react; the only other thing he knew about his birth parents was the eventual fate. Fortunately, Ollivander didn't seem interested in pursuing that particular vein of conversation further as he proceeded to analyse the boy's hands.

"Hm... yes, you're a left-hander."

"I, er, haven't been one for a while." Harry was impressed; it had taken six years for Miss Meacham to all but force him to write with his right hand.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr Potter. Whatever Dark wizards were thought to prefer in the past is neither here nor there. I'd kindly suggest using your naturally dominant hand for wandwork, however."

Harry inclined his head, more than happy to do anything that might make casting magic easier. Out of the blue, Ollivander clapped his large, thin hands, and a number of measuring instruments zoomed across the room, revolving around the young wizard. Measuring tape scaled the span of his arms, his knees, wrists and even his forehead, while several rings and tiny bowl-shaped tools encircled his fingers, expanding and contracting as they ran the length of his extremities. All the while, Ollivander took notes with a piece of parchment and a feather, giving Harry a special insight into his unique brand of wandlore:

"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. I use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand. A righteous wand for a righteous wizard, a calculating wand for a calculating wizard. A zealous wand for a _zealous _wizard."

Apparently finished with his observations, Ollivander snapped his fingers once more, and the assortment of measuring tools crumpled to the floor. Harry started picking up the various instruments, but soon discovered that the wandmaker wasn't interested in them at all, collecting several boxes from the shelves instead.

"Yes, this should be a good start... beechwood and Short-Snout heartstring, Mr Potter. Nine inches, nice and flexible. If you want to give that a wave..." he muttered, handing a pale wand to Harry, who felt foolish waving the stick for reasons unbeknownst to himself. Fortunately, Ollivander saved him too much embarrassment by snatching it away immediately, exchanging it for a smaller, darker one.

"Okay, maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches, quite whippy. Try -"

Harry did, to the immense displeasure of Ollivander who stole the wand back as swiftly as he had given it.

"Maybe not, then -" he murmured, fishing yet another wand out of it case, "- ebony and Steelhoof hair, eight-and-a-half inches, springy. Yes, give it a go!"

Minute after minute, wand after wand, Harry believed that Ollivander was no closer to finding whatever he was looking for. After what seemed like an hour, he was sure that the pile of tried and tested cases comprised half the shop's stock. As disheartened as Harry may have been, however, the old wandmaker got more excited by the second.

"Oh, this is a challenge - haven't had a fitting like this since the glory days! You trust me, Mr Potter, we'll find your perfect match yet! In fact, maybe this is the one - yes, an unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches, nice and supple. Let's have a look..."

The instant Harry grasped the wand, a sudden rush of warmth danced across his fingertips. Holding the wand aloft, he swished it downwards, and a violent flurry of gold and silver sparks shot out from the end of his wand, illuminating the already well-lit room.

"_Hah_ \- I _knew _it was phoenix feather! Well done, Mr Potter, bravo!" the old man cried, clapping his hands wildly as he enjoyed the light show. "Well, well... you're one eccentric wizard, for such a _very_ eccentric wand..."

"Sorry, Mr Ollivander?" Harry asked. "What's _eccentric _about it?"

"It is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, not the other way around. That one - _right_ there - contains a phoenix tail feather core. Very autonomous component, temperamental even - as is its donor - and generally works well with extroverted wand woods. Holly, however, is of a placid, soothing disposition, meant to cool the temper of a hot-blooded partner. Although, much untapped strength lies in the heart of an idealistic wielder. A versatile wand, to say the least. You'll accomplish great feats with it... its brother can attest to that. Just one thing, though."

"Yes sir?" Harry said, his eyes fixated on the fair-shaded wand, still warm in his hand.

"A clever Muggle once proclaimed that 'Hell is full of good wishes and desires'. It is not a crime to be wrong, Mr Potter. If we want to truly learn anything, you might say that it's in fact a necessity. Nevertheless, it does a world of good to embrace your shortcomings and admit poor judgements. Should you come to terms with that, Mr Potter, I foresee that your wand will be nothing short of unstoppable as long as it rests with you."

"Right - thanks, Mr Ollivander," Harry said weakly.

* * *

It was now, more than any other moment in the past week, that Harry felt the gravity of the expectations laid before him. His conversation with Hermione Granger had only contributed to a cocktail of confusion about his place in a world wholly unsympathetic to his ignorance. He didn't feel entitled; by his own admission, Harry was too prideful for any sort of special treatment. But he surely deserved an explanation concerning his surrogate family in all things but name.

After waiting in one of the Leaky Cauldron's booths for around a half-hour, Doge finally caught up with the young wizard as a large chest floated along behind him. He wore a side-splitting smile as he found Harry, and a large veiled dome he held bobbed up and down as he bustled over.

"Harry, my boy! Sorry I'm late," he wheezed, setting the dome down on the ebony table. It wobbled slightly for a few seconds before settling down. "I picked up your robes, plus a little birthday present on the way -"

"Oh, thanks Professor," replied Harry, eyeing the veiled dome as it wobbled again, "you didn't have to go to any trouble."

"Bah! Nonsense," said Doge. "It isn't every day that a wizard turns eleven, after all. Now, I'll go ask Tom about that cake!"

"Sir," Harry said testily, fixing a warning glare at the elder wizard, "that's appreciated, but no thanks. I did tell you that Holly made one."

"Yes, we need to talk about that..."

"I would agree."

Doge looked at the boy uneasily, slowly picking up the veiled dome from its place on the table. "I've got a room prepared in your name, keys and all. If you'll follow me..."

Harry nodded curtly, not daring to soften his gaze in case Doge started feeling comfortable. He followed the old wizard upstairs, which led to an expansive crimson-carpeted corridor and a series of ebony doors, each numbered by a brass plaque. It didn't take long for them to reach the designated room, only walking past a half-dozen rows before Doge turned a key through one of the locks.

They entered a fairly spacious bedroom, furnished with a single bed and dressers, all presumably made from the same ebony wood that filled the tavern. A small stone fireplace occupied a space on the far side of the room, which Doge proceeded to light with a soft jab of his wand. With another elegant swish, he set the chest down on the floor and rested the veiled dome on top of the bed's fluffy maroon blanket. He walked the length of the floor to peer through a large window that cast deep oranges and blues of a dusky urban skyline over the dimly lit chamber.

"It's only temporary," he mumbled, casually observing the non-magical scene outdoors as it gradually waned, "we'll have The Crucible ready by the end of next year -"

"I'm going back to Oakwood," Harry said firmly.

"Harry, come now!" the old wizard pleaded, his face contorting as if he were physically exhausted from the boy's stubborn attitude. "Bogrod informed you of the circumstances. Your parents' will... "

"And when were _you _going to inform me about the Obliviating business?"

"Who -?" Doge started with a quizzical tone, before abruptly shutting up at Harry's stern features. Removing the fez atop his head, Doge began to wipe his brow as he took a seat on the single bed. "I hope you don't mind me sitting here, getting old and all... look Harry, we had every intention of telling you -"

"What, before or after you did the dirty deed -"

"Now see here!" Doge said hotly, rising from his seated position to wave a crooked finger at the boy in front of him. Harry took a step back; he reasoned that while they both had wands, he had no idea how to use his. Upon seeing Harry's shocked expression, however, Doge seemed to calm down quickly. "Apologies, my boy, I didn't mean to lose my temper... you have to understand, we've just put a lot on the line for you. If we were to get caught, oh my..."

"What have you done, sir?" Harry asked, his voice trembling.

"We did it for you, Harry. I saw how much you loved those Muggles, and how much they loved _you. _That young woman, Holly, she thought the world of you, my boy. Yes, the Ministry usually send Obliviators round, and yes, they usually wipe all traces of your existence or implant memories that you died in a horrific accident for sheer kicks... I'm telling you like it is!" he wheezed at Harry's gasp of revulsion, "But we pulled some strings. Dumbledore's got friends on the inside - he bleeding well _is _on the inside - and they've just made it so that your home thinks you've gone to a boarding school indefinitely until further notice. See? Hardly any different from the truth. Though I must confess, you may not see them for a very long time."

Harry stared blankly at the tired old man, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Professor -" he whispered, his voice quavering, "- I just wish you'd mentioned something earlier..."

Doge walked over to the young wizard, gently resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I agree, my boy. My, there were better people for this job... I am glad to have met you, of course."

"Likewise, sir," Harry replied thickly, looking down at the floor to hide his insincerity. Doge took the opportunity to return to the veiled dome, placing a hand over the apex.

"I wanted this to be a happy surprise. I suppose that was foolish of me, but consider it a peace-offering, of sorts. I'm afraid that none of us have the power to truly make it up to you, but maybe this will go some way..." He discarded the navy veil, revealing a breathtakingly beautiful snowy owl encased within a golden cage. Harry ran over to examine the bird.

"Professor, seriously? How did it breathe -"

"Muting and Ventilation Charms, Harry," Doge said with a chuckle, "a spy's best friends. Right - your gear is all safe within the trunk. We can re-key it to your wand tonight or whenever before school. I'll go get the cake I left with Tom. The same one your young lady made... least I could do..."

And with that, the ancient wizard hobbled out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. Left only with his thoughts and an especially nosy owl (that kept poking him with its beak through the gilded cage), Harry found himself even more confused than he was before their short-lived argument.

It appeared that Hermione was telling the truth, but for whatever reason, Doge and his associates were willing to risk reprimands for his peace of mind. That being said, Harry still felt conflicted; he'd been whisked away from one world to another in the space of a week, on the orders of a guardian he still had yet to meet. Even if it was in his best interests, Harry couldn't help but feel kidnapped.

While he certainly looked forward to learning how to use his magic properly, he had to find a way back to Oakwood as soon as possible. He couldn't let Greg, Phil or even Alice think that he abandoned them for greener pastures. The thought of his friends sent Harry onto another interesting train of speculation, though it was soon forgotten as the owl nipped him fiercely on the arm.

"Hey!" he cried sharply, swatting the air in the general direction of the cage. The owl, who didn't seem to think it was doing anything wrong, looked almost affronted. Harry rubbed the ruddy patch of skin where he'd been bitten, narrowing his eyes at the bird. "I bet they've gone and bugged you and all," he muttered. "Could've sworn they had toads on the list... at least one of those wouldn't have nipped me one."

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Man, was that a mouthful. I read the thing out loud, by the way. It was a bit of a toughie, and really feels all over the place. But I did what I could, and can only hope to improve as we go along! A number of things have been hinted and/or in this chapter, and all I really should be saying right now is that nothing was done by halves. It is, to my knowledge, completely purposeful. Though you do get those little nuggets of fridge brilliance when you're lucky... boy, do I wish my fridge had stuff in it right now...

Just to be clear, by the way. Yes - this story is riddled with clichés. They're guilty pleasures; we all have 'em, though I'm trying (to an extent) to rein it all in as much as possible. However, there's one common component of your garden-variety fic that many detest, and that's bashing. It's counter-productive and leaves a bad taste in my mouth, so don't expect to see it here. Anyway, thanks for reading! :D


	5. Neville Rides The Train

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Harry pulls a bird, some children talk to their first Muggle, and a misunderstood beast comes to the rescue.

* * *

**Chapter Five – Neville Rides The Train**

Not for the first time that past month, or even in the past week, Harry was ambivalent about the recent turn of events in his relatively mundane life so far. During the past four weeks, he'd enjoyed an unprecedented amount of freedom, and he was sure to milk it for all it was worth... without completely milking his own net worth dry, of course. He'd decided on purchasing a subscription to _Transfiguration Today, _marketed as the 'twelve-time winner of the Corrigan Prize for Academic Journalism', in an effort to understand the basics of his family's traditional livelihood. Harry was unsure of exactly when he'd be able to fully comprehend the periodical, however. In any case, he was sure that his new recreational text, _Curses and Counter-Curses _by a Professor Vindictus Viridian, would be a wise extra-curricular investment after being accosted upon his first visit to the Alley. He couldn't wait to try the Jelly-Legs Jinx, especially if the animated representations were as accurate as the text advertised.

Having spent the last four years of primary school in a state of perpetual boredom, Harry found his love of discovery rekindled within the ink of his new textbooks. While he'd technically been performing magic for years, exactly how and why the phenomenon worked eluded him. He found the principles of a few processes, including simple transformation and surface interaction as well as single-layer synthesis (from his Sorcery and Potioneering set texts respectively) fairly easy to grasp; his library sessions spent delving into more advanced secondary school-level material (and even sculpture, strangely enough) aided him in finding at least some common ground with one or two items on the syllabus. Of course, magical theory followed its own rules and framework, and as much as he enjoyed reading, Harry had to admit that he found the occasionally whimsical rulings within the books more than a little challenging to comprehend at times.

While it was also unfortunate that he wasn't allowed to use his wand outside of school for at least the next two years (Doge mentioned a 'Trace' and he wasn't daring enough to call the man's bluff), Harry already felt the effects of being immersed in magic. He was still very much aware of the Alley's ambient power, although it was no longer accompanied by near-complete sedation, which he was more than thankful for. He'd wander the market stalls during the day and peruse his textbooks by night; probably not a wise decision however as his sleeping patterns became increasingly erratic. Nevertheless, his new (and yet still unnamed) owl proved to be the perfect alarm clock.

"_Krehh- ku__rp._"

"...bugger off..."

"_Keh-krrrp, krehhh-rk?"_

"It's not even bright yet," Harry rasped, wrapping an arm around his face in a feeble attempt to block the rays of sunlight that burned through the suite's window.

Apparently the snowy owl did not appreciate bare-faced lies, as Harry received a flurry of swipes from impressively sharp talons in response.

"Agh! Fine, I'm up!" he yelled, glaring at the bird before jumping out of the single bed. Visibly satisfied, the owl swooped over to Harry's bedside table to gently preen its feathers. Harry vigorously rubbed his eyes, squinting in search of his spectacles. He snatched the pair that also happened to occupy the bedside table, accidentally swatting his owl in the process.

"_Kreh—rk__!_"

"Oh, blow it out your backside," Harry snapped, slamming the glasses on to his face as he made his way to the window.

Despite being mere feet away, Muggle London (as Harry had already come to describe it) seemed like a distant memory. The scene of a bustling Charing Cross was his sole piece of primary evidence that the world he'd lived in, until recently, still existed without him. He had yet to bump into Hermione Granger again, and likewise any Muggle-born children in general. A slight relief, Harry would reluctantly admit, since such a meeting would only remind him of the special treatment he received courtesy of the mysterious Sir Albus, however minor it may have been. Turning his back on the window to cease any unwanted reminders of last month's events, Harry called out to the large white owl resting on his table.

"So, er, how's it going?" he asked, immediately feeling stupid as the owl gave him a blank stare. "Well, I suppose you've gone long enough without a name... Professor Doge said you were a girl, didn't he? I read somewhere that you're supposed to have black feathers too, though -" the owl turned her head on its side, amber eyes flashing warningly, "- no, I'm not doubting you! Never mind, let me just find a book or something."

Harry tapped his wand against the trunk's lock, which sprang open with a click. Rummaging through its contents, he pulled out his copy of _The Worldly Witch _and plopped back on the bed.

"Okey-doke, let's see here... Semiramis sounds cool, what do you think of that?" Following another blank stare, Harry said, "Yeah, I _totally _thought that one was stupid, just wanted to test you... Venus? I mean, you are pretty, so -" the owl promptly turned away, leaving Harry utterly flummoxed as to how she could have taken offence. He sighed, putting down the book and leaned closer to the bird.

"Look, I know the past month hasn't been ideal, and I haven't been the nicest room-mate," the owl gave a sharp but quiet "_k__ek"_, "but I did buy you those gourmet treats after all. We just got off on the wrong foot, didn't we?"

The snowy owl shuffled around to look at the young wizard, giving him a soft bark.

"I don't know if you actually understand me, but if you can, then I want you to know that I'd love to be your friend. But it won't be easy if you don't have a name, right?"

He could have sworn the owl nodded in agreement.

"Good to know we agree on something, then!" Harry said brightly, gently stroking her head after she affectionately nipped at his finger.

With what Harry believed was the owl's full participation, it only took a few more minutes to find a name from the book on wizarding culture. "Hedwig... you like it?"

Harry received a soft "_prek prek" _in response. "You do look like a Hedwig. She was a poet, it says... kinda ties in with you being so dramatic, I reckon," he said, laughing as the newly named Hedwig ruffled her feathers in annoyance.

The sound of frantic knuckles rapping at the door brought their attention to the other side of the room.

"Who is it?" Harry asked as he made his way to the door.

"It's Elphias! We have to get a move on, my boy!"

As he recalled the date, Harry cursed, chucking _The Worldly Witch _back into his trunk before fishing out a set of Muggle clothes for the journey to the station.

"One sec, Professor! Have you got my ticket?" Harry called, chucking treats across the room to coax Hedwig back into her cage.

"Yes Harry, don't worry about that, let's just try to get there on time!" Taking one last, long look at the scene of Charing Cross before him, Harry grabbed his clothes as he lunged into the bathroom.

Doge's panic and urgency soon proved unfounded; the ride to King's Cross was a quick one at the very least. They had avoided the rush hour by a fair margin, and only one change on the half-empty Underground seemed to lighten Doge's spirits somewhat. Of course, being a wizard born and bred meant that he hardly noticed the stares he and Harry received as they carried Hedwig around in her gilded cage. Harry, although, _did _notice, and wondered how wizards stayed so concealed, however oblivious they happened to be.

They arrived at the station with a half-hour to spare, and Harry went straight to work in locating the elusive Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. He'd passed through the station on a number of occasions for school trips and even with the orphanage; he'd never encountered anything out of the ordinary, as far as Central London went.

"Oh, it does bring back memories, being in this station," Doge said wistfully as they meandered past a crowd of tourists.

"Where is it, sir?"

"Right... there," he finally announced, pointing a finger towards the barrier separating Platforms Nine and Ten. Hedwig took a moment to flap her wings in apparent excitement, though Harry didn't follow.

"Now you'll want to be quick about it, I'll keep watch so that you -"

"Quick about what, sir?" Harry asked, perplexed. Doge looked at the ceiling, placing a hand on his forehead.

"I'm no good at this," he moaned, closing his eyes. "Here I am, ruining your first Run of all things!"

Harry looked closer at the barrier. Contrary to the other magical pathway he'd experienced in Diagon Alley, there wasn't the slightest sign of what lay beyond. Though he had discovered nothing, he did have an inkling of what Doge was referring to.

"That _isn't _solid, is it sir?"

"Not to _us, _it isn't," Doge proudly said, puffing out his chest. "I know it's a little daunting -"

"A _little?_"

"- but that's why we call it a Run. Go through at a steady pace, and it'll pass over you as if it were water. You'll be a natural!"

Wholly unconvinced, Harry reluctantly positioned his station trolley in line with the barrier.

"Now, my boy! Strike while the iron's hot!"

Harry tightly shut his eyes and gritted his teeth as he broke into a full stampede, expecting a painful collision. He wasn't sure how long he'd been running, but a bark from Hedwig caused him to snap back into focus.

The familiar view of King's Cross was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a single tunnel platform populated by numerous witches and wizards, all scrambling around under a wrought iron archway bearing the words '_PLATFORM NINE-AND-THREE-QUARTERS_'. A bright red steam locomotive was stationed in the tunnel, with '_HOGWARTS EXPRESS' _emblazoned in golden lettering across the smokebox. Children with trunks and a variety of pets were waved off by their families, while others clung fiercely to the hems of their guardians' robes. Harry turned back, only to be greeted by an expansive brick wall with no exit in sight. His eyes widened as a grinning Doge pranced through the wall, which acted like a rippling, permeable membrane on contact.

"Ah! Another year, another journey!" he said beaming, though his smile did fade after a while. "Shame I won't be going, though."

"Sir?"

"Oh," Doge mumbled at Harry's puzzled expression. "No, Harry, it's generally just for students. I'll still get there before you though, don't you worry!"

"How -" Harry started, before Doge tapped his nose with a wink.

"Have a read, I'm sure you'll find something."

Doge helped Harry onto the train by levitating both Harry's trunk and Hedwig's cage. Once all the items were safely on board, Harry walked him back to the train doors.

"Thanks for your help, sir," Harry said loudly, to hear himself over the engine.

"Not at all, my boy!" Doge boomed in response, waving as he walked away, his form gradually obscured by plumes of smoke. "Least I could do after - well - see you at the castle!"

"Castle?" Harry asked, though Doge was already gone.

With another twenty minutes before the train would depart, Harry heaved his luggage across the carriage, thankful that he was probably spoilt for choice of compartments. Swinging open the first door he'd laid eyes on, Harry walked in on an excited discussion between two boys approximately his age.

**"**We've been through this, Longbottom," the first boy drawled, pinching his brow before running his hand through platinum-blond hair almost painfully slicked back. "Dolohov is a beast! He's technically gifted, he has a library of tricks, his pace is through the _roof_ -"

"Which you've said about Jacobs, about Agyeman, about Romero, and all in the same season!" the other boy breathed in exasperation. He was slightly shorter; round-faced with longer, darker blond hair and pink cheeks. He fell back into a red leather-cushioned seat and chuffed to himself. "You're a glory hound, Draco, go back to Quidditch."

"Yeah, well -" the boy named Draco stopped upon spotting Harry, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly. "Hullo."

"Morning," Harry said, wheeling his trunk through and resting the cage on top before shutting the door behind him.

"You're awfully Muggle," Draco replied tonelessly, peering back as if he were sizing Harry up.

"What? Oh," Harry whispered, recognizing that both Draco and Neville were dressed in pristine robes and shirts, a stark contrast to his faded T-shirt and jeans. Their appearances seemed to confirm the goblin teller's words on social classes a month ago. "Muggle-raised, yes. Harry Potter's the name."

"Alright, Harry," Neville greeted him, jumping out of his seat and pumping Harry's hand. "I'm Neville, great to meet you. My Gran mentions the Potters all the time. Son of James?"

"Oh, we're related then," Draco said airily, joining Neville in shaking Harry's hand, albeit limply. "Same great or great-great grandfather, depends on which line you're tracing."

"Right," Harry said blankly, not sure if he was supposed to be delighted with the news. "Sorry for interrupting, I -"

"No worries," Neville said laughing, clapping him on the back. "Doesn't know what he's talking about, anyway. You follow GC? Well, 'course you would."

"Er -"

"Must be one of the squeamish types," Draco said stuffily, slumping back into his seat. "Wouldn't recognize a sport of kings if he played one."

"You're an idiot," scoffed Neville. "You _know _his dad was on Level One in the seventies!"

"My dad?" Harry asked a bit more loudly than he meant to, his interest piqued at the mention of his father.

"Yeah - oh... right," Neville responded, looking at Harry with a sympathetic expression. "You've only just come back."

He helped Harry load his belongings onto the luggage rack, ignoring Draco's protests of "Let the elves do it!" as Harry introduced Hedwig to a new friend.

"That's a cool toad you've got there," Harry muttered distractedly, his eyes glazed over.

"Trevor _is _one of a kind," Neville said, regarding the cage with a prideful smile as the boys took their seats next to Draco on the window side of the compartment.

"So you said my dad played sports?"

"Not just any sport," Draco spoke slowly in an ominous tone, placing his fingers firmly on the dining table as he reached forward. "_T__he _sport, Potter. Duelling on the Grand Circuit."

"It's a big deal," Neville said, whipping out his wand, "wizard on wizard - or witch of course - combat, wands only. They banned fists a couple centuries back. Pretty much a toff's game now -"

"A refined man's game," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "But yes, your father was very good. The 'Barmy Baron', they called him. Dropped out on a record high from the second-highest bracket around ten years ago, before, well..."

The compartment was uncomfortably silent for a moment.

"Draco has a habit of _speaking out of turn_," Neville said pointedly. "He does the same thing with my parents, but I don't think that's a mistake." The two boys shared a dark chuckle as Draco squirmed a little, appearing even more uncomfortable about the subject.

As the train started moving, sunlight blazing through the window once it left the tunnel, Draco and Neville introduced Harry to the basics of duelling. Unsurprisingly, there were points of contention between the two on almost every rule.

"So you can't Transfigure on a sand platform - too much risk you've used the pebbles as well, transformation or no -"

"Dolohov Conjured a snake at the Stonehenge Conference."

"Balls he did, that was a Phantasm Curse!"

"Still Conjured it -"

"What does 'Phantasm' _mean_ to you, Draco?"

Sensing yet another grand schism of the duelling schools, Harry reached for his trunk to pluck out the August edition of _Transfiguration Today. _He could barely understand some of it, but it'd at least be more riveting than listening to Draco and Neville, who were nice (well, only Neville for the most part), but seemingly had the potential to spend twenty years deconstructing the Nerve Scare of the Fifties.

"See, look at Harry," said Neville. "There are other things to life, you know. Theoretical Transfiguration, Harry? That's... deep."

"It is," Harry mused, looking up from the magazine. "Brain-frying, but it's interesting at the very least. You into it as well?"

"Not so much, but I do appreciate the harder sciences, unlike some," Neville replied with a sniff as Draco raised an eyebrow. "For me it's Herbology. Can't wait to visit the greenhouses at Hogwarts! I heard they've got seven on the castle grounds -"

"So it is a castle, then?"

"What _did _the Muggles do to you?" Draco squawked, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Of course it's a castle. Where else would they teach magic to hundreds of children?"

Neville coughed. "Redmoor." The two blond boys shared a look before their raucous laughter filled the compartment.

Upon spotting Harry's confused expression, Draco explained the joke. "Redmoor is one of those newer schools. Pro-Muggle, says my cousin, so they like teaching 'progressive' subjects like Technomancy and Defence Against the Dark Arts, whatever _that _is."

"Muggles are alright," Neville said, giving Draco a warning glare before turning back to Harry. "But _Technomancy_? That's an insult, it's like saying wizards can't build things!" Reminiscing over his experience of Diagon Alley, Harry struggled to bite his tongue at Neville's gripe. Luckily, he was saved by a timely quip from Draco.

"So Potter," he said, eyes shining with mirth as he glanced at Neville. "Longbottom here says that Muggles can fly. I bet him seven Sickles it's rubbish."

"They can," Harry replied, "using a vehicle called an aeroplane. It needs loads of fuel, but they can fly across continents. You've never been to an airport, then?"

"A _what?_"

"Ha! Fork over, Malfoy," the round-faced boy said, standing triumphant as he held out an expectant hand.

"Pauper," Draco spat, lip upturned, "they still need a machine to do it!"

"You didn't specify, matey. Besides, it's not like we can do it without brooms," said Neville, raising his hands up in the air before resting them behind his head.

Draco didn't say anything for a while, looking up at the ceiling in thought.

"I saw Greengrass do it once," he finally said, looking very pleased with his rebuttal.

"You've also sworn that the Greengrasses eat ambrosia for breakfast," Neville said with a sigh.

"They _do_!"

"Who's Greengrass?" Harry asked.

"_Daphne _Greengrass is Draco's 'third cousin', if you catch my drift," Neville said, grinning.

"Not really," he replied, confused by Draco's rapidly reddening complexion. _Did Neville insult his family?_

"Troll spawn," Draco growled, apparently attempting to glare his friend into non-existence.

* * *

The next several hours were fairly uneventful; Draco and Neville compared their respective holiday trips while Harry carried on reading. He noticed that Neville didn't mention his own parents again, though he did refer back to his grandmother quite often. _Perhaps the Longbottoms shared the Potters' fate, _Harry wondered, though he made an effort to steer away from that train of thought. True to his earlier observations, both boys were indeed wealthy: when a witch with a tea trolley passed by the compartment, the trio bought the whole selection of treats between them without blinking.

"Hey, Draco. _Draco,_" Neville called to the pale boy, who was intimately preoccupied with his third Caramel Crabapple.

"Ah - yehlp?" he eventually responded, hurling a slimy apple core out of the window.

"Charming. Found us a _yellow _one by the way," Neville said darkly, holding up a sickly yellow bean-shaped sweet.

"Well yes, they're Every Fla - oh."

"What's all this then?" asked Harry, happy to take a break from his crash course in dragon waste vanishment.

"Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans," Neville recited softly, holding the sweet up in the air as if to consecrate it, "and this one's a legend. Just the right shade of mustard yellow dotted with lime freckles... Draco swears it's pee-flavored, but I have no idea how he'd know that -"

"Shut up!" Draco snapped before calming himself down. "Of course, we need a volunteer. I ate it the time before last -"

"- because you lost a bet -"

"That means nothing!" he retorted. "Look, _someone _has to do it. Now Potter," he said firmly, turning to Harry. "We all have to take one for the team at some point."

"I haven't even joined," Harry said under his breath, swiftly retreating to his mind-boggling magazine. Draco was about to shout something back, though he was interrupted by a knock at the compartment door.

"It's open," Neville clamored, his voice chipper, and in Harry's opinion was likely happy to have another student around to witness Draco's imminent plight.

The door opened to reveal a tall black boy with slanted eyes and high cheekbones, already dressed in full school uniform. A smirk crossed his lips as he regarded the scene before him.

"So," he asked silkily, "whose turn is it this time?"

"Alright Blaise," Neville said cheerfully. "Draco here's gonna take the fall for us. Aren't you, matey?"

"I - wha - _you,_" Draco blustered, all eyes on him.

"_So_ good with words, you are," Blaise half-sang, his smirk widening into a full grin. He snaked an arm around the pale boy's shoulders as he sat down. "And speaking of eloquence, where _are_ your lackeys at if you don't mind me asking?"

"Shove off, Zabini," Draco spat, yanking the sickly yellow bean out of Neville's hand to examine it. "Shove right off. But if you must know, Crabbe didn't get in. His parents won his appeal for Magus Anglesey's, though. As for Goyle..."

"Yes?"

"He's being..._ homeschooled," _he whispered with a slight tremor.

The three boys' faces darkened, leaving Harry to peer over his magazine cover in amusement. Blaise happened to notice this before the other two, and extended a hand in greeting.

"Blaise Zabini," he said cordially, smiling as the bespectacled boy shook his hand. "I assume you're new to all of this?"

"You'd assume correct. I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, smiling in return.

"As in 'Barmy Baron' Potter?" Harry nodded. "Ah yes, I read about you in the paper."

"You read the _paper?"_ Draco said, snorting.

"Yes, as it happens," Blaise replied, nose upturned before levelling his eyes at Harry. "So, the Boy of Tomorrow... is it true that you can make your eyes glow on cue? I've always wanted to do that..."

"Where on _earth _did you hear -" started Harry, though he was cut off by Draco.

"Wait, _that's _you? Father's been raving on about it for weeks! You got over seventy on the Profile, didn't you?"

"Well yes, but -"

"But _nothing,_" Neville said, cutting him off with a wide-eyed stare. "That's something only Sir Albus could lay claim to. The better schools of the Union require a forty-eight as an entry requirement, and that's like the top five per cent of wizards globally. You can see why it's a shock, Harry."

"Well it is to me too," Harry replied, "but I haven't even used my wand yet. I don't know any real magic!"

"Doesn't matter," Blaise said quickly, waving him off. "The Profile assesses your personality or affinity and different types of intelligence or something, don't quote me on that, though. Either way, the number's meant to show the range of magic you can do unaided, and how well. What are your strengths, anyway?"

"Don't know, I didn't get to read it. Doge pretty much sang the number and packed it away."

"Oh right," Blaise replied, "well, I got a fifty-three. Suited for Artificing, which makes sense. It is what my father did for a living."

"Which one?" Draco sniggered, before grunting in pain as he was kicked under the table.

"I hadn't forgotten, you know," said Neville, a devious grin spread across his features. "Go on Draco, eat it!"

He began to chant the order, his voice rising as he repeated himself. Blaise soon joined Neville in goading Draco to eat the infamous yellow Every Flavour Bean, while Harry looked on in morbid fascination. His curiosity would not be satisfied, however, as the compartment door swung open yet again. An older, dark-haired girl with cruel-looking hazel eyes stepped through, glaring at the lot of them. A shining silver badge was pinned to the chest of her school robes.

"Prissy?" Draco squealed. "I'm _saved_!"

"That's Prefect Yaxley to you," she said in a nasally voice, "cousin or otherwise. Zabini! What did I send you in here for? Why aren't they dressed yet?"

"Isn't that your job as Prefect?" Neville asked with a cheeky smile, though a glance from the girl made him gulp soon after.

"I want my money back," she spat, her head sharply swivelling back to Blaise, who didn't hesitate in fishing out a Galleon from his pockets to slam it into the Prefect's hand. Harry found himself surprised by the frivolous exchange of such a sum, but decided against commenting for the moment.

"You three had better be ready in the next two minutes," she snarled as she made to leave the compartment, "or I might have to use the Shrivelling Hex I learned over the summer. Clear?"

Draco and Neville scrambled over to the luggage rack to change while Blaise cackled with delight. Harry, who didn't wish to be on the receiving end of the girl's experiments, quickly followed suit.

It wasn't much later when the Express approached the village of Hogsmeade, their view from the compartment window gradually dimming as the sun set behind the hilly forests. A voice echoed through the train, informing them that they would be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes.

"Can't wait to get Sorted," said Neville, rubbing his hands together. Harry made a face.

"Is there anything you do know, Potter?" asked Draco, snickering as he glanced at Blaise who remained silent. "Hogwarts has a House system. You know, house points and camaraderie and all that?"

"Oh yes," Harry said, finally comprehending, "our Houses at my old school were named after saints."

"Aw, how cute," Draco gushed before rolling his eyes, "and how _Muggle._ Ours are named after the founders of our school, and they were the greatest witches and wizards to ever live. Their names were Slyth -"

"We have reached our destination," the voice echoed again, "all please disembark. We have arrived at Hogsmeade Station, all please disembark - mind the gap between the platform and train doors. Please leave your luggage, it will be taken to the castle separately. Thank you for travelling on the Hogwarts Express."

"Well, that's our cue," Neville said with purpose, standing up straight. As he looked around, Harry noticed that Draco and Blaise looked extremely uncomfortable in comparison. As they exited the compartment, they landed on a tiny dark platform; the only inhabitants in sight were other dark-robed children, the white lanterns hanging from the shelter roof casting a deathly pallor over their faces.

"Is this where we get Sorted? What happens to us?" Harry whispered to Neville.

"Dunno, it's a school secret," Neville breathed back. "Though it's meant to be some kind of test."

"Maybe this is the -"

"Firs' years, firs' years over here!" a gruff voice boomed from a distance, as distant yellow lamplight revealed the largest (and hairiest) man Harry had ever seen.

"He's a giant," Harry gasped.

"He actually might be," Neville shot back harshly as they walked towards the huge man. "Don't scream about it though - are you _trying _to get us killed?"

"Sorry," Harry mouthed an insincere apology as they moved into a line of children leading up to a narrow, even darker path. For the next few minutes, the yellow lamp and the bass-level plodding of the giant man's boots were a makeshift compass, their invisible surroundings betraying nothing.

Eventually, they would hear a fluid sound that occasionally bubbled, dunked and rippled. _Water, _Harry surmised, _maybe __we have to pull a sword from a_ _spring? _As his vision adjusted, he could see patterns of reflected light dancing over the rippling surface ahead.

"Oh, must be the Lake," Neville said, "my Gran said that it swallows up disobedient children, but I'm not sure about that one."

Urban legend or not, it did little to curb Harry's emerging nerves. The question of why he hadn't accepted the offer from Middlesex Oratory instead started to plague his mind, until he quashed his worst fears as nonsense. _They surely wouldn't risk the lives of students, _he reassured himself. He looked to the heavens instead, and was greeted with a most wondrous sight. There, stood tall and proud, was the silhouette of a magnificent castle with its many towers and turrets, some even threatening to perforate the sparkling tapestry displaying the moon and stars. As far away as it was, Harry felt its attraction and knew beyond anything else: _that is Hogwarts - _that _is magic._

"Four to a boat! No more'n four!" ordered the giant man as he walked the length of the shore, which was surrounded by a fleet of tiny wooden boats.

"Early bird, Harry! Let's go!" Neville called, dragging Harry by the sleeve of his robe as he ran over to a boat on the far left. As they slowly climbed in, a high, haughty voice caught their attention.

"Ladies first, Longbottom," it stated plainly, a tiny hand pushing past both boys as the front of the boat was suddenly occupied. "Come on, Pansy, hurry up now!" After he'd gotten his other leg in, Harry was clouted by a face-full of fabric as the front half of the boat was filled.

"Hello Daphne, Pansy," Neville said cordially. The girls turned back to acknowledge him, their faces faintly illuminated by the sky. The one in front of him, Pansy he assumed, was hard-faced, her forehead covered by a flawless fringe. The girl behind her, Daphne, wore her hair in shoulder-length curls. Her eyes fluttered a little as he introduced himself.

"So you're Draco's third cousin?" he inquired. The girl's mouth dropped as Neville giggled in the background.

"He's the one I read about, Pansy," she said softly, not taking her eyes off of him as Hagrid bellowed, "Everyone in? Alright - _Forward!"_

As the fleet of boats began to glide unaided across the lake, Harry felt a few taps on his shoulder and looked back to find a grinning Neville.

"Watch out, Harry," he whispered. "That one's as cold as ice. Don't answer any of her questions if you want to sleep easy tonight."

Harry nodded lamely, though decided to take the advice on board anyway. He found it harder to follow as Daphne treated them to a tirade about Muggle-born students on the train journey. He secretly wondered if he could get away with pushing her overboard as they met a vast, pitch-black tunnel obscured by a curtain of ivy that hung over the cliff face.

"It was insufferable, really. That incessant moaning, 'oh woe is me, they stole my family'! The bare-faced ungratefulness... like we didn't do them a favour. You heard that Granger girl, Pansy?"

"Um, which one?" the other girl asked quietly.

"Oh, you remember. Plain, buck teeth, whiny. Textbook Mudbl -"

"Hey, do you smell that?" Harry interrupted, sniffing. He was decidedly not in the mood to hear the girl's dismissal of Hermione's (or his own) situation.

"It's a lake, Potter," she said simply.

"No, it's not the Lake, it's right here, just in front of us I think. You smell it, Neville?"

"Absolutely putrid," Neville concurred. Harry couldn't be more grateful. "Like the back-end of a -"

"Just _what _are you insinuating? I smell nothing," Daphne huffed, her head whirling around for a second to scrutinise the boys.

"I'm not implying anything," said Harry, "though your defensive response does speak volumes, Daphne."

"How dare you!" Pansy snarled in support of the other girl. "Have you no respect for the fairer sex?"

"Whether I do or not, that odor is anything but fair -"

"You_ \- _you _arse, _Potter!" Daphne hissed as she turned back once again, spittle flying into Harry's face.

"Wow," Harry chuckled, "a little pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't you say?" He received a wrathful growl in response. Satisfied, he glanced back at Neville, who was trying his best to contain an impending fit of giggles as the boat sped up.

"I find myself questioning your judgement, Neville," he said evenly as the blond boy's eyes widened. "She's positively lukewarm at most."

Harry spoke too loudly; Daphne had apparently endured enough and lunged for the boy, though she ended up rolling out of the vessel as she tripped over a startled Pansy. Harry cursed - he would have called out to the giant man but he was too far away to be of any use. Instead, he threw off his outer robe, wrapping it around his wrist and hurling it overboard to a flailing Daphne.

"You two, grab my waist!" he called to a panicking Neville and Pansy.

"Wha -"

"Just do it!"

As the two children anchored him, Harry fed the outer robe to the drowning girl's outstretched hands. She gripped it, though her eyes shot wide open as a thick dark coil enveloped her own waist, snagging her and the garment far away... and towards the ceiling of the tunnel.

"Daphne!" Pansy shrieked, burying her face in her hands.

Soon after, the fleet of boats crashed into a sea of pebbles. As Harry, Neville and Pansy scrambled out of the rickety vessel and onto what looked like an underground harbour, a crowd of worried-looking children formed, headed by the giant man himself. He was furious to say the least.

"Wha's wrong wi' yeh?" he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the trio. A boy started weeping in the background; whether he was mourning Daphne, scared by the hairy giant or both was uncertain. "Tryna' make us late fer the feast or summat?"

"Sir," Pansy pleaded, "Daphne fell into the Lake! Potter was trying to kill her -"

"Potter? _Oh,_" the man groaned as his eyes fell upon an incredulous Harry. He looked back at Pansy for a moment. "Don' worry 'bout yer friend, she'll be here in a -"

As if on cue, a massive tendril shot out from the tunnel. Slowing down as it reached the harbour, it placed a shivering Daphne on the ground before petting her on the head and receding into the Lake once more.

"There yeh go! You alright, lass?" the man asked Daphne as he gently swept the traumatized girl into his colossal hands. She said nothing; an unreadable look plastered across her features as she gazed at Harry.

"Shoulda' known," the giant man groused as he sent a glare in Harry's direction. "You Potter boys got a death wish or what? Tryna' cos' me m'livelihood... night o' the Feast... ungrateful little..."

"_Bit_ insensitive," Harry remarked to Neville, before he was socked by a soggy outer robe.

"Oh, thanks Daphne."

He tightly wrung the fabric out as they travelled up a passageway carved into the rock, which ended in an opening paved with damp grass, shrouded by the castle's awesome shadow.

"There it is," Neville said, pointing to a flight of steep stone steps that culminated in a towering oak door.

"It's incredible," breathed Harry, gazing at the castle façade in all its splendor. Decorated with dozens of gargoyles, griffins and other mythical creatures that Harry could not identify, the walls themselves seemed to call out to him as loudly the Alley did a month previously. Shaking his head to remain focused despite his captivation, Harry heard a familiar voice nearby.

"Just wait until we're inside," it replied knowingly. His eyes darting around, Harry finally recognized the voice as belonging to Hermione Granger, standing next to him as if she hadn't left since their first meeting. "I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History _if you must know."

"Hello Hermione," he greeted her, "glad you made it!'' She gave him a challenging look.

"Why wouldn't I?" she said as they reached the head of the stairs. The giant man raised a fist, bludgeoning the door three times.

The oak doors eventually opened, bathing the arriving party in warm orange light as a sole figure stood before them. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald green robes analysed the crowd with a steely gaze.

"Thank you very much, Hagrid," she said to the large man. "Your seat is ready at the High Table."

"My pleasure, Professor," Hagrid replied jovially as he plodded past the woman, surprising Harry by the stark contrast from his attitude only minutes before. As she turned and stalked off with military precision, the cohort of new students followed her lead. They entered a cavernous stone entrance hall, lit by flaming torches held by gargoyles identical to the ones outside. A cacophony of voices could be heard to the right, though the tall witch led them towards an empty chamber in the opposite direction. She waited patiently as the children gradually simmered down, looking at her with nervous expectation.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she began in a strong, yet inviting tone. "I am Professor McGonagall, your Deputy Headmistress for the foreseeable future. Beyond the opposite doorway awaits one of the most significant events in your school career - the Sorting Ceremony. Your Sorting will decide where you sleep, who you eat with and where you spend your free time for at least the next two years. The House you are Sorted into will be like your family of sorts, and is likely to remain with you even when you venture into the outside world.

"We have four Houses here at Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin, each claiming its own decorated history and distinguished witches and wizards among their ranks. As you learn and grow within the School, your victories within the classroom and without will contribute towards a group effort in a competition for the annual House Cup. Rule-breaking and general insolence is not tolerated, and as such will likewise lead to your House being penalised. To enrol at Hogwarts is a mark of honour. When you travel outside its walls, even now, you are ambassadors not only of the school and your House, but the Union as a whole. You have been chosen as its best and brightest, and I would perish before letting any of you sully our name.

"Now the Ceremony is due to begin in the next few minutes, and will be followed by our start-of-term Feast. I suggest you all use the time to smarten up. We have guests, and it would do well for you _not _to embarrass us," she finished, her eyes lingering on Harry, who had yet to put his outer robe back on. Grinning sheepishly, he draped it over his head and readjusted himself. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a ghost of a smirk cross McGonagall's face before she retreated into the Entrance Hall.

"Was there anything about the Sorting Ceremony in your book?" Harry asked Hermione as he stared at the doorway to the Hall.

"Not a word," she muttered in reply. It suddenly occurred to Harry that he had no idea which House each of his parents belonged to, though hardly knowing them would have provided little guidance even then. He felt a hand grip his shoulder, and he spun around to meet Draco Malfoy's grave appearance.

"I've deemed you worthy, Potter," he said, quietly but confidently. "Zabini and Longbottom here agree," he gestured to Neville, who nodded curtly. "Rough around the edges, but you've got potential. No matter what happens on the other side, you'll have a place among us. Are you up to task?"

"Well, I guess," Harry replied, unconvinced of the importance Draco appointed to the group of boys. Draco nodded and returned to his place, taking a deep breath as he rolled his shoulders back in preparation. As he turned back to Hermione, Harry met her eyes, which narrowed in suspicion. Had he unknowingly accepted some binding magical agreement swearing fealty to the wealthy boy? Hermione might have known, but wasn't about to tell if her features were any indication. Harry exhaled and fixed his view on the doorway once more. It was nerve-wracking, but he had magic on his side. It had always been on his side... well, for the most part. In any case, he'd already come home, he thought - this test would be as easy as climbing into bed.

Of course, his confidence was shattered as McGonagall returned to the chamber.

"The Sorting Ceremony is to begin shortly." She drew her wand; with a wide arc and a rush of wind, the students' hats disappeared.

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **If there's one thing I love about writing fan fiction for this series, it's the setting. We will visit the Muggle world again, that's unavoidable, but it may not be for some time. The next chapter should be out within a fortnight... should be. Thanks for reading, and many thanks for all the reviews so far! :)


	6. Minerva Needs A Nightcap

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **The first-years are Sorted, Harry eats cake, and the Headmaster delivers the start-of-term address.

* * *

**Chapter Six – Minerva Needs A Nightcap**

Magic, by its very nature, is a nebulous, enigmatic phenomenon, and it could be argued that the wizarding world is obliged to regularly adapt to its whims for mere survival. If there is one constant at which historians would reach a consensus, however, they might look no further than the time-immemorial institution of the school for magical arts. Even in the age of antiquity, many prosperous wizarding communities employed a host of committed scholars at its nucleus, their libraries vaunted as the most hallowed of halls.

If one were to ask the opinion of the average witch in Diagon Alley, she might describe Hogwarts School as nothing more than the archetypal ivory tower of British society. To many, it symbolised the forge for a creative class which thought little of the common wizard, and an aristocracy that cared even less. Were one to ask the typical School alumnus, of course, they would likely hear the polar opposite. Professor Minerva McGonagall, Head Girl of the Class of Fifty-Four and current Deputy Headmistress, was no exception.

It was in the body of Hogwarts that she saw a wealth of heritage and promise in equal measure. It was the castle's grounds, she felt, that the Union was indebted to for the prevailing culture of British wizardkind, as it also was for the future great pioneers of the Isles and territories beyond. Among the eighty first-years stood in front of her, a good third represented the next generation of the most decorated families in the nation: the Macmillans, the Davises, the Patils... silver-spooned? Yes, Minerva would reluctantly admit, but their sense of duty to the progress of all wizards was simply undeniable. That Neville Francis, for one, was left as the sole heir of the Longbottom line illustrated the grave sacrifices that many among the older families made for the freedom of their magical brethren. She only hoped that the children before her would not suffer the same fate.

As for the remainder, the progeny of the working-class pure- and half-bloods were shining examples of the Union's commitment to championing social amelioration, with all disadvantaged students having been awarded generous scholarships in light of their magical potential. Then there were the Muggle-borns, their very presence betraying both the best and the worst of the Ministry's efforts. Forever separated from their birth families, yet afforded the opportunity to prosper and stand counted among the greatest witches and wizards of the day. A necessary evil, she supposed, but for how long would the ends justify such means, and what of the Muggle-borns who were unfortunate enough to fall short of the school's criteria?

Convincing herself that brooding at such a time was a futile exercise, Minerva turned on her heels to leave the chamber, the first-years obediently following her in crocodile fashion through to the flagged stone Entrance Hall. A stale, foreboding silence permeated the air itself as they gathered behind the large double doors, until it was quenched by a dissonant but majestic trilling of what sounded like horns and flutes in the next room. McGonagall accepted the signal, clapping her hands together. The doors creaked open, granting passage to the anxious group.

* * *

Harry found himself mesmerised as the group followed McGonagall into the Great Hall. Its neat, angular form, offset by swirling embellishments and ornaments across its walls and along its many pillars, somewhat resembled the dramatic, extravagant interiors of cathedrals that the orphanage would visit on day trips, save for the four oak dining tables that stretched along the astonishing length of the Hall. Each table seated a couple hundred students, most of whom looked either disturbed by the fanfare or starved - which was understandable, given the empty, glittering golden plates laid before them.

As lofty as it was long, the colossal chamber was also furnished with vibrantly coloured, animated stain-glass windows depicting chivalrous knights and mischievous fairies, and even a silver self-playing pipe organ circled by thousands of flickering golden candles, installed high above in the starry heavens... _where in heaven was the roof?_

_"_I know what you're thinking," said Hermione with a smirk. "Intriguing, isn't it? It's an Enchanted Ceiling, the oldest known example as well, according to_ Hogwarts: A History. _Probably think of themselves as gods, no less..."

Whether Hermione's closing remark was valid or otherwise, it certainly left an impression when Harry set eyes upon the foot of the Hall. A tall flight of maroon-carpeted stairs led to yet another oak table, which accommodated several dozen adult wizards.

Twirly beards, crooked hats, dashing robes and all, they were (in most senses) the picture of fairytale magicians, commanding the respect of their apprentices from their elevated position. Harry quickly identified Doge and Flitwick, who were seated at the far left of the table, in hushed conversation as they cast furtive glances over the Hall. At its center, a tall, jolly-looking and crooked-nosed old man with a long, silver beard and moustache in shimmering purple robes sat atop a throne-like oak chair, decorated with golden interlocking patterns. He winked as he met the eyes the first-years on the other end of the chamber.

"Maybe Odin, at a stretch?" Harry muttered to Hermione, who covered her laugh with a cough.

As McGonagall escorted the group to the side of the carpeted stairs, another party slowly made their way through the oaken double doors. It was composed of several other students, headed by an older boy and girl who levitated a stool that seated an peeling, misshapen hat. McGonagall's Vanishing of their own headgear made a little more sense now, he thought.

Harry supposed he should have anticipated it, but couldn't help raising an eyebrow as the line of students behind the pair broke into song:

_"Draco dormiens -"_

_"- nunquam titillandus -"_

The procession was a full choir. Sections exchanged phrases in a fugal fashion as the harmony developed, the words remaining the same, all the while accompanied by the unmanned pipe organ; somewhat reminiscent of a plainsong-cum-processional. It was actually fairly normal, until the stool-flying hat 'decided' to join in:

_"DRA- CO- (draco dormiens nunquam titillandus) -"_

"How they _call_ to me," said Draco imperiously, his eyes alight. Neville sniggered behind him.

Harry simply shook his head as he watched the choir form a line in front of the stairs, turning to face the seated students. The pair levitating the stool gently set it down as they lowered their wands, swivelling around to weave an intricate piece of wandwork for their audience to admire. The sweeping flourishes and twirls of their wand movements were nothing short of a complex, elegant routine performed with surgical precision. Plumes of smoke and many-coloured beads of light followed the paths of the pair's delicate yet confident gestures, slowly coalescing into an ethereal, revolving image of a torch-lit cave.

Inside, a burly, short-bearded warlock wearing chain-mail brandished a sword and wand against a club-wielding, giant-like beast. Many of the first-years began to chatter excitedly before being shushed by McGonagall. The chant and the organ gradually softened, until a solemn hum was all that remained. The hat, whose crooning of Draco's name had been abandoned, actually began to speak in a booming, majestic voice:

**"**_Gryffindor, bold and  
Brave, guards these halls  
Beyond the grave; with  
Righteous heart and sword of  
Light, mankind extolled  
His fearsome might!"_

Despite being awed by the magical performance, Harry felt anxious. Slaying gargantuan fiends to prove his worth in the Sorting did sound a little far-fetched, especially since the evidence pointed to simply wearing the hat as a rite. But considering Daphne Greengrass's mishap earlier, he couldn't rule it out.

The image began to shimmer and flicker as the pair waved their wands, losing its form but quickly morphing into a diminutive, excited-looking witch, surrounded by heaps of scrolls as she drew a massive, sparkling chalkline chart under a starlit sky. To his side, he heard Hermione hum in what he assumed to be approval once the hat resumed its tale:  
_  
"Ravenclaw, bright and  
Wise, gifts our walls  
With ears and eyes;  
Deft of hand and sound  
Of mind, she led the  
Clev'rest of her kind!"_

Hermione actually beamed at him, which was slightly unnerving. While the foreign letters, numbers and patterns of the chart looked a little intimidating, Harry reasoned that a more theoretical Sorting task would be preferable. He didn't mind a challenge, and the odds of death seemed far lower. That being said, he didn't believe the teachers couldn't possibly have the time to administer four tasks for every child.

The scene shifted yet again; this time around, it portrayed a woodland clearing at dawn. A powerfully built, fresh-faced witch wearing furry earmuffs was pruning the leaves of a ghastly human-shaped plant _(was it screaming?)_ over a bubbling cauldron. As she worked, a gaggle of busy elfin creatures with huge eyes and ears scurried around her:

_"Hufflepuff, loyal and  
Fair, tends these grounds  
With loving care; her  
Iron-clad nerve and honest  
Tongue endeared all  
Clans from ev'ry rung!"_

"Sounds about right for me," Harry heard a boy whisper to another first-year behind him. Considering the self approving tone that lingered in his words, Harry privately disagreed. The performing pair waved their wands yet again, and the image transformed for a final time. In what appeared to be a dungeon of sorts, a bald, monkey-faced old wizard sat cross-legged, surrounded by countless shining trinkets floating in the air. His fingers were placed to his temple, and his eyes were closed as if he were in deep concentration:

_"Slytherin, shrewd and_  
_Proud, seals our lore in_  
_Ancient shroud; a_  
_Blade-sharp wit and devious_  
_Plot didst raise these towers_  
_Above the lot!"_

The organ pipes flared, and the couple providing visuals jabbed at the air with their wands. The illusion exploded in an immense burst of colour; a surge of bubbles and sparks were propelled outward and scattered across the Hall. Students and staff alike broke into applause and Harry was certain that he heard Hagrid behind him, his hands colliding with deafening quakes as he cheered from his place on the High Table.

While the applause slowly died down, the organ expelled a flatulent noise as a strange, doublet-wearing spectral figure squeezed itself out of the pipes. It took a graceful bow in mid-air, swooping down towards the ground as it called:

"Assemble, one and all!"

"The Hogwarts ghosts!" whispered Hermione with rapt excitement, grinning and clasping her hands together as several more spectres phased through the stone flooring of the Hall, convening in a recess just under the starlit celling as they chattered amongst themselves. The performers filed out, taking their places among the seated students as McGonagall cleared her throat.

"The Sorting shall now commence. When your name is called, please take a seat on the stool, and the Sorting Hat shall assess your suitability for each House."

"No elf probes?" a boy on Harry's far left cried in disbelief. "My sister lied!"

Clamorous laughter spread across the Hall, and as he looked behind him, Harry was amused to find several of the staff joining in.

"There's always one," he heard McGonagall mutter a little too loudly under her breath before sending forth a sharp, crackling sound with a snap of her fingers. The barks and giggles from every table died at once. She withdrew a long scroll of parchment from her robes; Harry felt his stomach tighten for the first time that night.

''Abbott, Hannah."

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails rushed past him, eagerly claiming the stool as McGonagall lifted the hat. The chamber remained in silence for a few more moments, until the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The elder students and staff broke into applause yet again as the Abbott girl's robe hem and badge transformed to match the Hufflepuff insignia. She thrust the hat off of her head and scampered off to the table of similarly robed students. _Is this all there is to it?_

"Adler, Marian."

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Bones, Susan?"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The routine carried on in the same fashion, and eventually "Khokhar, Arjan" was met with warm invitation as he made his way to the Gryffindor table.

"Good luck, Hermione," Harry whispered as "Goldstein, Anthony", whom Harry now identified as 'Elf Probe Boy' was sorted into Ravenclaw.

"For what?" she replied boldly, though a small tremor in her voice suggested otherwise. "I'm already here."

"Granger, Hermione!"

Sucking in a deep breath, Hermione strode across the Hall stony-faced, a sea of scrutinising eyes following her every movement. She was a novelty, Harry realised, in a disturbing sense: there were no Grangers here.

As she sat for what seemed like several minutes, she appeared to be debating with whatever was taking place. She frantically shook her head while her hands quivered, clasping the stool with an iron-like grip. At one point, Harry wondered if Hermione would scream out loud; her cheeks were red and trembling with what he assumed might be rage. Her shoulders slackened eventually as she exhaled, and the faintest smirk crept across her lips as the Hat boomed:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The congregation clapped with some enthusiasm, though they were reserved in comparison to several other students' receptions. Looking over her shoulder, Hermione gave Harry a fleeting glance before marching over to the Gryffindor table. The ceremony continued with Daphne Greengrass being promptly sent to Slytherin, a "Higgs, Florence" joining her shortly thereafter.

Following "Lombard, Rebecca" who was sorted into Hufflepuff, it was finally Neville's turn. A wave of murmurs bounced around the chamber as the round-faced boy took his place on the stool.

"Naturally," the Hat sighed almost immediately, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Neville grinned as he received almost unanimous applause, strutting over to Gryffindor's table to join Hermione. It appeared that his family was as popular as they were wealthy.

Draco was summoned not long after, and he certainly played the part. The Hall suffered a deafening silence as he glided over to the Hat. All eyes were on him, especially those from the Slytherin table. Harry soon understood why, as the Hat had hardly touched the boy's head before yelling, "SLYTHERIN!"

He smirked and puffed out his chest as he made his way to the Slytherin cohort, receiving strong applause, though not quite as much as Neville.

A set of twins, "Patil, Padma" and "Parvati" were soon sorted into Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively, and Pansy Parkinson accompanied Daphne in Slytherin minutes later. Harry, who had been lost in analysing the destinations of each student and what each sorting meant, was wrested from his thoughts as his name was read out.

"Potter, Harry!" Once again, idle murmuring followed the announcement.

"The Baron? Did he have a kid?"

"It was in the paper, you muppet!"

Harry warily took a seat on the stool as McGonagall set the Hat over his head, its wide brim obscuring his vision.

_"Oho!" _a gravelly voice said in his head. Harry took a sharp breath. "_The last Potter, I see."_

_"I'm not..." _Harry thought back. "_L__oads of pot makers in the world... even if I was the last person on Earth called 'Potter'... must be surnames meaning 'potter' in another language..."_

_"Oh, we have a thinker," _the voice teased. "_J__ust like your father, though... you waste it on nonsense."_

_"Sorting Hat... you can hear my thoughts... bloody amazing... extremely invasive... still amazing..."_

_"Let's just get this over with, shall we?'_ the Hat griped._ 'Okay... you're a hard-working one, for the most part..."_

Harry grumbled in protest.

_"Don't think at me like that, boy, I just call them like I read them! Now, now, now. Ooh yes, definitely a clever clogs, aren't you? Very creative, and you'll pick it all up quite quickly I reckon... interesting. You have a mission."_

_'A mission?" _Harry thought, confused, though a brief image of Phil grappling Greg in a headlock jogged his memory.

_"Yes... it's a righteous goal, if not naive..." _the Hat mused. _"You show ambition and courage in abundance, it would appear... the resemblance is uncanny..."_

_"_I _have_ to go back,_" _Harry whispered aloud.

_"Oh, I don't doubt it! But will you stay there, Harry Potter?"_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Hall was suddenly filled with a echoing avalanche of cheers and whoops, though none of the students applauded more than those at the Gryffindor table. Two red-haired boys (who seemed eerily familiar) actually climbed onto one of the benches, belting out an impromptu chant at the top of their lungs:

**"Hark, the Baron strikes once more  
Slain opponents pave the floor!"**

Overwhelmed by the reception, Harry was stunned for a moment until he was ushered forward by a smiling McGonagall. Once his legs had carried him to his destination, he was swarmed by the nearby students, young and old, all desperate to extend their congratulations.

"The torch burns again! Great to have you here, Potter!"

"I can't believe it! We got the Baron's kid!"

"Make your eyes light up, Harry! For _me_?"

Neville, who happened to be sitting opposite, gave him a wink and a thumbs up. Harry grimaced in return, trying to ignore the ongoing harassment as he watched the rest of the ceremony.

"Shastri, Bhupen?"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Taverner, Dean!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The last fifth of the names were read out with no student interruption, most being sorted in quick succession. As McGonagall announced one of the very last handful, Harry recognised yet another boy he was sure he had run into before. _It's like he appeared out of nowhere..._

"Weasley, Ronald!"

"I've met him, dead certain," Harry whispered to Neville as a gangly, thoroughly bored looking red-haired boy awkwardly stepped towards the Sorting Hat.

"Where from?" asked Neville, an eyebrow raised. "I thought you were new?"

"Diagon Alley," he replied, "on my birthday. He was chasing Hermione Granger down the street."

"The Muggle-born?"

"You know where you're going, boy," the Sorting Hat boomed. "Show some enthusiasm! GRYFFINDOR!"

"He's a Weasley, alright," said Neville flatly, smiling apologetically at Harry's quizzical look. 'My Nan knows them, relatives of a friend of hers. His dad heads a department in the Ministry. _Very _high-profile, location and all."

"I suppose, London _is _a pretty big deal," said Harry with pride, clapping as Ronald Weasley sauntered over to the Gryffindor table, looking as if he wished to be anywhere and everywhere else. Neville laughed.

"London, big?" he spluttered. "You're a funny one."

"What're you on about?"

"The Ministry is based in York, Harry," Neville explained. "Diagon Alley's a cool shopping spot, but that's it. London is pretty much goblin territory as it go-"

"Zabini, Blaise!"

Blaise, the last un-Sorted student left, strode towards the stool with his head raised high, rather akin to a courting peacock in Harry's opinion. A moment of silence passed as McGonagall lowered the Hat.

"SLYTHERIN!"

A final bout of applause rang through the Great Hall as Blaise took his seat at the Slytherin table. McGonagall withdrew her wand, waving it in a wide arc, and the first-years' hats materialised on their laps. Ascending the stairs, McGonagall placed a hand on the silver-bearded wizard's shoulder, appearing to whisper something in his ear as she occupied the empty seat to his right. Clearing his throat and giving the witch an appreciative smile, he rose from his wooden throne and extended his arms in greeting to address the students:

"Good evening, all. To our new arrivals, I am Professor Dumbledore, and on behalf of myself and the rest of the staff, welcome to Hogwarts! To those returning, thank you for coming home. Sorry that the chairs are all worn: I left them here, I could have sworn!"

"_Albus!_" McGonagall hissed. A few isolated guffaws could be heard among the otherwise puzzled silence of the Hall's occupants. Harry wondered (with faint hope) if this behaviour was typical of his would-be guardian. Considering Neville's amused expression, he believed that he might soon face the envy of his peers.

"Apologies," said Dumbledore with a chuckle, now resting a hand on McGonagall's shoulder in empathy. "The Castle has been unusually quiet throughout the summer, and I must confess to being more than overjoyed by a full house, as it were. Unfortunately, we've a plethora of announcements to bombard you with before the end of tonight's events, but for now: eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow may be our final day!"

And with that, Dumbledore clapped his hands twice before returning to his seat. Almost immediately, the golden plates were piled with copious amounts of food; a generous selection of mouthwatering meats, vegetables, side dishes and several delicacies that Harry had trouble identifying left no plates wanting, and crystal jugs filled to the brim with various beverages were stationed at several points on each table. Once the momentary paralysis of joy had subsided, the Great Hall swiftly descended into chaos.

The Yorkshire puddings went first; the mountainous dish hadn't lasted more than a half minute before the bloodthirsty Gryffindors had waged their assault. Harry, who only managed to scoop one to safety from the nearby onslaught, was a little disappointed, until the gleaming plate miraculously refilled on its own.

"I _love _magic," Harry breathed jubilantly before helping himself to the newly replenished plate of puddings.

"Don't we all," a voice beside him agreed with fervour. As Harry turned to his left, he was greeted by the extended hand of an elder, gangly boy with red hair, horn-rimmed glasses a stiffer upper lip than Miss Meacham could ever dream of mustering.

"Percival Weasley. It's a pleasure," he clipped as Harry shook his hand. "Potter, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I'm Harry," he replied, noting that the boy wore the same silver badge that Draco's cousin had on the train. "Nice to meet you too. This is all quite grand."

"Oh yes, but it _is _Hogwarts," Percival said with a flick of his wrist. "Pinnacle of British wizardry and all that rot. Our position comes with a duty to uphold such traditions, lest the masses lose sight of our unique identity. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Not really," said Harry, slightly narrowing his eyes. "Whoever the 'masses' are, whatever they want to identify with is hardly anyone's business, by and large."

"Harry just owned a _prefect_," Neville mouthed in amazement to a tall black boy sitting next to him. "Way to show 'em Gryff spirit, Harry!"

Percival didn't seem at all fazed as he sliced through a juicy cut of steak. "A little bolshie, but ever the egalitarian," he said mostly to himself, his upper lip quirked he looked up from his plate. "You definitely are a Potter!"

Not actually knowing much about what it meant to be a Potter, Harry hastily changed the subject.

"So, _Weasley, _you said?" he asked. "I heard your Dad's quite high up in the old, um, Ministry... is that right?"

"Indeed it is," Percy chirped as he sat up straight. "My father is the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. He's mad about the stuff - it perplexes me at times. As you can imagine, even one electronic device could pose a serious problem for any magical community. Did you hear about what happened in Mould-on-the-Wold last month?"

"No, I -"

"Yeah, I did," Neville said, holding up a runner bean-crowned fork as he inspected his reflection. "My great-uncle's mate lives down there. Something about an exploding... _foam_?"

"It's called a mobile phone, apparently," said Percival in confirmation, his hands reaching out to a jug of fruit juice. "Muggle businessmen use them to communicate on-the-go. Ingenious for them, but dealing long-term Augo disturbance and extensive damage to the neighbourhood's Muggle-Repelling Array is no joke. My father's been hounding the Chambers for more funding to install nationwide Monitoring Charms for years, now. How they would expect to prevent such disasters otherwise is beyond me!"

"Couldn't he ask the Cabinet?" Harry asked. "You know, the Muggle one? It's in their best interests to keep us a secret as well."

"I'm not sure that many would agree with you," Percival responded, "but even if it is, we're fully autonomous from the United Kingdom, as are most other wizarding populations and their counterparts, so they don't really have any responsibility for magical matters whether they lie within their borders or not. Unless we threatened their own sovereignty, one might argue. Then there's the Trade Amendment to the International Statute of Secrecy, of course..."

While Percy drifted towards stressing the necessity of supporting ICW legislation to bolster international cooperation, Harry and Neville struck up a conversation with two other first-year boys: Seamus Finnigan, a pint-sized, sandy-haired Irish youth; and Dean Taverner, a dark-skinned Londoner who appeared taller than many third-years.

"Sir Albus! Top man, he is," Seamus said brightly, saluting in the Professor's general direction at the High Table. "Delivered me letter in person, would you believe! Got me ma some work in Hogsmeade an' all. "Course, we had to move - would've been a bitch of a commute otherwise!"

The boys sniggered in agreement. "Whereabouts in Ireland did you live?" asked Neville as he took a liberal swig of pumpkin juice from his goblet.

"Hy-Brasil," Seamus answered with a prideful grin. "You've heard of it?"

Dean clicked his tongue, rubbing his chin in thought. "I went there once," he said, his eyes fixed upward in fond reflection. "Not quite sure how we got there, but I think that's the point, isn't it?"

Seamus, Dean and Neville shared a short laugh, while Harry's brow furrowed in bafflement.

"I don't quite follow," he said hesitantly as he regarded the boys with a questioning look. "Why would you forget how you got there?"

"Phantom island," said Seamus with a smirk, "so you won't see or find it 'less you're with someone who was born there."

"The ninth-largest Unplottable location worldwide," Dean added, "said our guide, anyway. Mum and Dad say there are loads in the Grenadines, but it's been years since we've gone, so I can't be sure."

"Maybe it's a good idea, seeing as you'd get lost everywhere," Harry jested as the boys roared in laughter.

"I wish it was that cool," Dean replied, still sniggering, "but my dad just can't take that much time off work, these days."

"What does he do?" asked Harry.

"He's a painter," answered Dean, "kind of awesome, he's taught me everything about it. Does the _Mab and Chip_ strips for the _Prophet _as well. That's where most of his time goes, I guess."

Seamus' eyes widened. "Wait, your dad's _Silas _Taverner?" he asked excitedly. Dean nodded, and Neville shook the boy by his shoulders.

"That's wicked!" Neville exclaimed. "Harry, his dad is Silas Taverner!"

"Oh, that's cool," said Harry, his attention elsewhere. The ghost who had leapt out of the organ earlier was now seated at the far end of the Gryffindor table, and was apparently embroiled in an interesting discussion with none other than Hermione and Ronald Weasley. That being said, the latter did little else than quietly eat, mull over a comment made by one of the other two, and nod curtly before returning to his meal.

"Sorry, Percival," Harry called to the elder boy, "but is that your brother?"

"Percy, please," he said vacuously as he waved Harry off, peering at the other end of the table after he had finished talking to another older student. "Erm - oh yes, that's Ron. He's a strange lad. Quiet, but witty when he wants to be, I'll have you know. Seems Old Nick has taken a shine to him."

"Old Nick?"

"Well yes, Nearly-Headless Nick," Percy elaborated. "Our House ghost and self-proclaimed school organist. Were I Head of House, I would prefer a ballsier representative, though I digress."

"What? Headless?" said Seamus, looking puzzled. "His head looks alright to me."

Percy rolled his eyes. "Don't you listen?" he said loftily. "I said _nearly _headless. If you don't believe me, you can ask him for yourself. Sir Nicholas!"

The ghost, who had since started talking to another group of students, looked down the table to find his summoner. "Coming, coming," he said hurriedly as he quickly waded over to the group.

"Hello, Percival," he greeted the red-haired boy. "Congratulations on - ah, more first-years! Well met, lads! Enjoying the festivities?"

"We heard you're 'nearly' headless - how does that work?" asked Seamus as he chewed loudly.

"I never_-" _Sir Nicholas blustered, glaring at Percy, "did you put them up to this, _Prefect_ Weasley?"

Percy looked incredulous. "Hardly, all I -"

Harry beat him to the punch. "He said it was best to ask you personally, sir. I apologise for my friend's rash behaviour -" (Seamus shouted "You what?" in retaliation) "- but you can understand why we would be so curious."

Sir Nicholas glowered at Percy for a long moment before relenting. "Very well," he sighed in defeat. The spectre yanked an ear, and to the boys' surprise and disgust, his head followed, only connected to the neck by a thin sliver of ephemeral flesh. The group squirmed as he re-adjusted himself; he seemed a little too satisfied with their reactions.

"So," he said smugly, "I suppose you want to know-"

"No, please don't," Neville replied quickly, fiercely waving his hands in protest. Satisfied, the ghost let out a spiteful bark as he glided towards another group of students.

"So each House has its own ghost?" Harry inquired.

"Quite," said Percy, pointing over to the Slytherin table. "You've got the Bloody Baron over there, for example."

Harry almost jumped out of his seat. "Who?"

"I just told you, Potter," said Percy exasperatedly as he continued gesturing towards the Slytherin table. As Harry surveyed the scene, his eyes fell upon Blaise, who was attempting to talk to an unpleasant looking, gaunt-faced ghost wearing robes stained with silver blood. The Baron seemed to be more interested in the uncomfortable Draco seated opposite, however, coolly regarding the boy with a blank-eyed stare.

"That's - that's not my dad, is it? You said _Bloody _Baron, right Percy?' he asked the elder boy nervously, his face ashen.

"Hm? Oh, heavens no," Percy said with a chortle, lightly clapping the younger boy on the back. "It all does get rather confusing, I suppose. Yes, that's the Bloody Baron. Though a handful of other wizards have and do claim the right to the title of 'Baron' - five or seven out of a max figure of twelve, depends who you ask - your father _is_ often confused with him, amusingly."

"I wouldn't call it that..."

The Feast continued with few words exchanged between the haughty Prefect and Harry himself, until Percy caught Harry staring down the table at a now solitary Hermione.

"You have an odd fascination with her," he said flippantly. Harry's head span back.

"Excuse me?" he asked, his voice a little more heated than preferred.

"With Hermione," Percy clarified, a grin spreading across his face as an assortment of desserts replaced the unwanted leftovers of the main course. "You're like my father in that regard."

"Er -"

The Prefect scoffed. "Don't be a dunce, Potter, I'm talking about her being Muggle-born. Ever since she came to stay with us, my father has inundated her with questions about this and that. The special treatment he gives her... Why do you find them so interesting?"

"Because I _am _one," Harry shot back, feeling his temper flare as a squadron of profiteroles flew into him, unceremoniously but fortunately dropping onto his plate. He devoured one before casually adding, "you'd do well to remember that."

"Whoa - nice one, Harry!" Dean cheered after witnessing Harry's somewhat absently performed feat. "Looks like the Prophet was right for once!"

"Doesn't your dad work for the Prophet?" Neville asked, bemused.

"Ain't a - _gah - _reporter though, is he," said Seamus, his face reddening as he strained to levitate a bowl of Spotted Dick in vain.

"Best leave it, mate," Dean said, patting the wee boy's shoulder in pity.

Percy stared at Harry intently, as if he were assessing the younger boy as a potential threat. Not being one to turn down a challenge, Harry stared straight back.

"You'll watch your mouth, Potter," Percy snarled, his chin slightly upturned, "unless you want to lose more than just House points."

The Prefect eventually broke his gaze after narrowing his eyes, possibly finding the affair to be a fruitless pursuit. Eagerly collecting a few more profiteroles from the serving dish, Harry shrugged it off, only mildly concerned that he may have committed a major faux pas by crossing a Prefect before classes had even begun.

Several minutes later, he spotted the Headmaster leaving his seat at the High Table once more as he carefully descended the flight of steps, long velvet robes rippling as they slid along the maroon-coloured carpet. He stopped behind a tall, ornate golden lectern stationed at the top-left foot of the stairs, its desk supported by a statuette of an owl whose wings spread as the ancient wizard gently clasped its feathers, shuffling through several sheets of parchment.

Clapping his hands twice as he had before, every dish, receptacle and piece of cutlery vanished instantly with nary a flash, band or clink. Most of the first-years were astonished; the bulk of the Hall's occupants, however, appeared especially annoyed that their plenteous banquet had been cut so tragically short.

"Indeed," he spoke in a rich, round tone which promptly silenced the students' protests, "we are yet again confronted with the slippery passage of time; it certainly is Fate's cruel champion. Nevertheless, we have much to discuss tonight. Before we begin, however, I would like to thank our School Chamber Choir and our ceremonial ministers on behalf of the staff for a flawless opening to the Start-of-Term. They have practised relentlessly during the later summer period in the Hogsmeade Village Shrine, and I believe they deserve the highest praise for their efforts."

His acknowledgements were accompanied by a bout of polite applause. "I feel that it is worth noting," he continued, 'that our newly-Apprenticed Theurgists in our Head Girl, Heather Edgecombe and Hufflepuff Prefect Aaron Jones -" another, far more enthusiastic round of applause followed, "- sought the blueprints of an esteemed Hogwarts alumnus. Silas Taverner, who sat his final examinations in this very Hall almost twenty five years ago, graciously contributed his exceptional artistic prowess to assist in the preparation of this year's ceremony.

"While I would not deign to suggest that such generosity may have been spurred by an element of nepotism -" a light smattering of stifled snorts and a sigh from McGonagall was heard from the staff, "- one mustn't overlook the fact that Mr Taverner refused all compensation, professing that fulfilling his 'obligations to the spirit of Hogwarts Castle and all that it represents' was more than enough. I mention this because I am of the firm belief that it is not this Castle or even the Highlands' magic that is responsible for our enduring strength, but indeed its students, its educators, its caretakers and the inalienable relationships that bind us all together. Please remember this when you happen upon a fellow student in need, or when you are given clear, albeit unpopular instruction from a member of staff. It is even more prudent to remember our bond as we leave the Castle grounds: we are ambassadors for this institution. We pride ourselves in competence, courtesy and compassion, but beyond all, _community." _

As the occupants of the Hall clapped yet again, Harry felt the urge to comment on Percy's hypocrisy. Hadn't he used his position to threaten Harry only moments earlier? If the values that Sir-Professor Dumbledore stressed were so highly sought after at Hogwarts, how did someone like Percy even manage to attain the title and responsibilities of a Prefect?

"Now," the Headmaster intoned in an effort to pacify the warm ovation of his audience, "we must address the lengthy catalogue of start-of-term announcements. First of all, Professor Snape of the Potioneering Department and his party of students have yet to return from the School's August trip to Bolivia, though they shall return to the Castle in time for the beginning of regular classes at the start of next week. He has sent his regards by owl, and has kindly requested that his first- and third-year students prepare for a challenging yet rewarding approach to their classes, quote unquote, 'syllabus be damned'." Many of the elder students giggled in response, and Harry watched McGonagall turn an impressive shade of red as her jaw appeared to spasm.

This Snape character easily grabbed attention, it seemed - he could rest assured that his Potioneering class had an interesting teacher, at the very least. The Headmaster flashed a knowing smile to the High Table; an impossibly rotund, bald old wizard who occupied almost as much space as Hagrid returned it with a wink as he twirled his thick moustache. Chuckling to himself, the Headmaster collected his thoughts for a moment before continuing:

"Extra-curricular classes and Clubs shall commence tomorrow afternoon as usual. Professor Toothill has kindly requested that all students deliver sign-up forms to her office by Tuesday morning, in the event that anyone neglected to do so during the summer break by owl post. First-years are advised that Flying and Combat sessions require preliminary Health and Safety seminars before entrance is permitted. Introductions to Optional and Elective classes for third- and sixth-years shall commence on Wednesday morning, as will Orientation for our new first-year cohort. Should you have any concerns about your schedule, you are urged to consult your Head of House before the end of the coming week, but ideally as _soon as possible._

"The Merlin League Inter-School Quidditch season shall begin on the second of November: try-outs for the First, Second, Third Seven will take place throughout the duration of the next two weeks, under the direction of Madam Hooch. Likewise, Professor Toothill will also hold try-outs for the School's Duelling Squad at all levels with the assistance of Professors Merrythought and Flitwick..."

"Wicked," Neville whispered across the table. "Who's up for Duelling try-outs, then?"

Harry shook his head immediately. "Sounds cool," he said under his breath, "but I think you probably need a year or two of those Combat sessions to -"

Shocked by an abrupt knock to the head, Harry whirled around to find a reproachful-looking Percy, wand in hand.

"Is he allowed to do that?" Harry mouthed to the other boys, receiving a few shrugs in response.

"... advised to avoid crossing Mr Hagrid's cabbage patch, lest one wish to incur 'another decade-long famine like that cursed -' ... ah."

The Headmaster looked back at the High Table to nod to Hagrid, whose face was flushed as he coughed in embarrassment.

"Quite," the old wizard remarked with a cheeky grin, "which conveniently brings us to our next item of concern. We here at Hogwarts are firmly against the micromanagement of our students' free time. Nevertheless, it must be stressed that the Forbidden Forest is indeed such - _forbidden_. Students without a permit are strictly prohibited from entering the Forest: should one be so fortunate to survive the experience, as was the case at the end of last term," Seamus audibly gulped at that point, "they should expect severe disciplinary action not limited to exclusion for the remainder of the year and whatever may follow as a consequence.

"On a lighter note, you may have noticed that we are playing host to a number of distinguished guests this evening. Samhain is fast approaching, and this year we are most fortunate to share the company of Athair Timothy Gordon, Root-Priest of Inverness, and his fellow Druids of the Larachbeg Grove. They will be providing invaluable counsel concerning matters of the spirit in preparation for and during the festival, and will be more than willing to answer any theological questions students may have, I am sure. In return, I only ask that you pay them the utmost respect, whether you adhere to the Old ways or otherwise.

"Our first School assembly, led by Professor McGonagall shall be held next Monday after breakfast - try not to be late. That is all for tonight: off to bed with you!" As if on cue, a squad of Prefects from each House rose from their seats and scoped their respective tables, gathering the first-years as the rest of the School fought to exit the Great Hall's already overwhelmed doorway.

"First-years Gryffindors, file behind me!" Percy ordered as left his own seat. Meeting Harry's gaze, he grabbed the younger boy by his robes, leading him to the edge of the Gryffindor table.

"Stay where I can see you, Potter," he said curtly, tapping his glasses before heading off to round up the remaining children. Harry presumed he was being made an example of some sort; the likelihood of Percy already disliking him probably made the Prefect's choice that much easier.

The red-haired boy promptly led them out of the packed chamber and up the wide marble staircase at the end of the Entrance Hall. What would follow was the largest snakes-and-ladders set Harry had ever encountered. The cavernous tower was fitted with countless staircases of varying widths and lengths, the vast majority of which tended to pivot, dive and temporarily join with a once disconnected platform, or corridor. If it really was a game, it also came ready with spectators; what had to be hundreds of moving portraits littered the walls, eagerly chattering amongst themselves as they observed the scrambling students.

"Harry, look!" Neville gasped, pointing towards the west wall at around half the ceiling's height. "They've got _slides _in the castle!"

They eventually managed to brave the Grand Staircase, but barely. Seamus, despite prior warning from Percy, almost fell through a disappearing step. He only averted causing a human landslide thanks to the reflexes of Lavender Brown, another first-year of their House, who kicked him up the flight of stairs before he was too late. To his annoyance, everyone found the incident extremely funny, even Ronald Weasley. His sniggers near the front of the line were the first noises Harry had heard from him that night.

As they reached the end of a corridor on the seventh floor, a giant silver shield adorned with the bust of a sleeping dragon gleamed in the candlelight.

"Caput Draconis," Percy said boldly as the youngsters gathered around him, in a commanding tone that Harry would have thought impossible coming from him minutes earlier. "A test of courage for those 'new to the fold' as it were, and a guardian of the treasures that lie beyond it - namely we, the latest generation of Gryffindor's chosen. There are no excuses: our Founder provided us with the Hat, and the Hat brought you here. The Dragon's Head does not harm its own. Granger!"

There was an awkward silence before the crowd finally dispersed, allowing Hermione to come forward. Her steps were hesitant, but her eyes resolute as she surveyed the giant shield. Stopping just short of Percy, she turned to the tall boy to give him a questioning look.

"Go on now," he urged, pushing her forward, "walk up to the dragon. It'll wake up soon."

As Hermione edged closer, the Dragon's Head slowly roused. It yawned and hissed, its long snout gradually opening wider and wider as if poised to attack at any moment.

"Tickle the uvula," said Percy quickly.

Hermione swerved round to look at him, incredulous.

"Unless you think the Hat made a mistake, Granger," he added mirthfully. Far from just being a pompous annoyance, Harry was truly beginning to dislike the boy now. If a glaring Neville beside him was any indication, he wasn't alone.

Tightly drawing her eyes shut, Hermione gritted her teeth and thrust her hand forward, swiftly tickling the dangling uvula before the dragon's teeth could claim her arm. The bust froze immediately, the shield falling back on its hinge to reveal a porthole of reasonable size.

"Don't worry, all," Percy said cheerfully, meeting the sea of terrified and vengeful stares directed towards him. "The dragon just clamps your arm if you don't make it in time. All you need to do to set yourself free is follow my advice. Good work, Granger! I'll get you House points for that, rest assured."

With a tight-lipped smile, Percy climbed halfway into the stone porthole, beckoning the first-years forward. Warily following him through the recess one-by-one, the first-years entered a spacious circular room, furnished with squashy, scarlet-coloured armchairs and a fireplace that covered a good chunk of the far area of the wall, which was otherwise paved with red-and-gold embroidered tapestries depicting numerous witches and wizards - likely former Gryffindors. Trophy cases and bulletin boards took up the east hemisphere, while a window depicting the clear night sky and overlooking the grounds separated two doorways on the opposite end of the room.

"Welcome to the Gryffindor Common Room," Percy lauded, "sometimes referred to as the Lion's Den -"

"It is _never _referred to as the Lion's Den," an elder reddish-blond girl Harry remembered as the Head Girl said tiredly as she jumped through the porthole, a tall black boy with an afro close behind.

"Give 'em a rest, Perce," he said, poorly mimicking the red-haired Prefect's haughty tone as he clapped him on the back. 'Little tikes are tuckered out by now - you don't want to bore them, eh?'

Percy's mouth moved for a while before he actually spoke. "But I, you see -" he started.

"It's okay Percy," the Head Girl assured him with a warm smile. "You did great! Showing promise and all that good stuff... now go on, get your beauty sleep."

Percy looked helplessly at the two, before nodding reluctantly. "If you insist," he said wearily, taking a bow before exiting through the right-hand door.

"Hello firsties!" the boy with the afro greeted, spraying confetti over the crowd with a flick of his wrist. "Bobby Jordan, at your service! Now who's ready to do some _magic stuff?_"

Most of the first-years cheered in chorus. "_Sorcerers_," the Head Girl sneered under her breath before joining in. "Welcome, new Gryffindors! I'm Heather Edgecombe, Head Girl for this year. Congratulations on making it into the best House of the lot! We've got loads to cover, but we can make a start in the morning. For now, girls take the first floor on the left, boys do the same on the right. Any questions?"

"Do we get our own rooms?" asked Hermione quietly, with more than a hint of what Harry thought were restless nerves.

"You'll be sharing with four others," Heather said, her brows furrowing as she regarded the younger girl and her peers. "Is everything okay?"

Hermione nodded her head quickly, attempting to avoid anyone's gaze as she pursed her lips.

"Righty then!" Bobby said jovially, rubbing his hands together. "I'm bushed. Off to bed, you lot. Long day tomorrow!"

The group of first-years promptly took their leave. As they climbed the first flight of stone steps to the right, the boys were welcomed by a pair of oak doors labelled by golden plaques.

"Finnigan, Longbottom..." Neville murmured as he examined the door on the left. "Harry, Dean, you're over here too!"

The quartet hurried through the oak door, encountering a cosy chamber with five four-poster beds hung with deep red, velvet curtains, each accompanied by the boys' trunks.

" 'Ello Trevor," Neville gushed as he prodded the sleepy brown toad through its cage. "Where's Hedwig, Harry?"

"Er, the _Owlery?" _Harry replied uncertainly as he read the parchment left on the owl's cage. "West Tower, apparently. At least I won't have to clean her droppings for a while."

They sniggered for a moment, looking back as they heard the oak door creak, large hands grasping the frame as it gradually swung forward.

"Forgot there were five of us," Neville mused to himself as he returned to prodding Trevor. As a tuft of red hair poked through the entrance, Harry let out a sigh before walking over and yanking the door open.

"Don't worry," he said to the edgy form of Ronald Weasley, "no one's asleep yet. You're Percy's brother, right?"

Ronald nodded, his shoulders hunched over. "Yeah, I'm Ron," he replied solemnly. "sorry he's such a twit..."

Harry grinned, pumping the boy's hand. "No worries, it's not your problem. I'm Harry Potter - welcome to the Lion's Den, Ron!"

The group of boys (including Ron, even) roared in laughter, and quickly set to looking over their quarters. Harry was slightly relieved; they were no Phil and Greg, but his new dormitory mates appeared to be a decent lot. He supposed that time would only tell, though.

"We're not actually gonna call it that, are we?" Seamus asked as he unfolded a pair of pyjamas.

"You've got _no _say, mate," Neville jeered, wagging a finger at the sandy-haired wizard. "Might give your vote to Lavender, though."

Ron laughed, earning a glare from Seamus. "Wicked left boot, that girl," he said with a shrug as the smaller boy stuck out his tongue.

"Your face, though," Harry chipped in as he shook his head, "when you fell into Fay Dunbar. _Priceless._"

"The best," Dean chuckled, almost tripping from his bed as he hung a poster from the wall. "It was all like, 'I died in your arms tonight!'"

Seamus groaned as Dean broke into giggles halfway into his serenade. Harry, the only one to recognise the lyrics, gave the lanky boy a standing ovation as he bowed in response.

"She is quite pretty, I guess," he said eventually, fishing out his copy of _The Essential Alphabet of Magic_ from his trunk.

"But _Harry," _Neville said as he his hand flew to his chest. "What of fair Hermione? Think of her poor, delicate heart -"

"Leave it out," Harry grumbled, feeling the heat rise to his face despite himself. In truth, the only girl he'd ever fancied was hundreds of miles away, but they would never need to know about her.

Ron's ears perked up at Neville's jibe. "You _don't..." _he said, regarding the bespectacled boy with an upturned smirk.

"Of course not!" Harry scoffed, scurrying into bed with his book covering his face.

"She's alright, I guess," the red-haired boy said, ignoring the whistles and whoops directed towards Harry. "Once you get talking to her for a bit, anyway. Maybe you should join us sometime."

Harry laid his book down, his eyes looking up in thought. He certainly didn't have a crush on Hermione; she had speared him with a wand upon their first meeting, after all. Then there was the kidnapping... She did seem clever, though, and as much as Harry got on with Neville so far, he could not hope to relate to the boy's wizarding upbringing, even if he wanted to.

"Maybe I will, Ron," he replied, returning the boy's smirk as the whistles intensified.

* * *

Minerva was loath to admit that she enjoyed the Start-of-Term feasts; while her role meant that she was obliged to uphold a sense of decorum beside her superior who was renowned for his wilful ignorance of social mores, the slight hiccoughs that followed always added a whimsical flavour to the occasion which she, albeit privately, thoroughly enjoyed. Pouring herself a tumbler from a dusty amber bottle of Ogden's Old and taking a leisurely lap around her office, her eyes fell upon a faded, but still moving photograph framed above her glass cabinet. Depicting a gang of mauve-robed teenagers running amok with a giant silver trophy, she remembered the day it was taken as the Merlin League final of her sixth year at Hogwarts.

The family name McGonagall meant nothing then, she recalled. How embarrassing it must have been for the Ross clan, who had previously ousted her mother from the family tree, to seek Minerva's company and allegiance once she had appeared on a cover of _Transfiguration Today _for the first time among many! Her brothers and she reconciled with the clan only out of love for their mother; the McGonagalls were household names by the eighties, and even the Muggle heritage they prized hadn't qualified as a hindrance.

_That was then, _she reminded herself as she considered her latest intake of Gryffindors. She predicted Harry Potter would be a haphazard blend of James' cheek and Lily's maturity, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Potters were meant to be unhinged, however slightly. Whether her assumptions were accurate or not, only time could tell. Imelda Vane was the picture of her great-aunt Ethel, whom Minerva had shared a dormitory with many years ago. There was one other girl, however, whose determined features had been etched into Minerva's mind and refused to fade.

She shared a number of parallels with Hermione Granger, whom she had met several times previously. Hermione was a no-name, but was more than aware of what that meant and how it might work in her favour. She also possessed a brilliant mind for her age, was a free thinker, and was eager to learn about the world that had so viciously claimed her. Minerva hadn't had to suffer that particular tragedy during her own youth, but the following identity crisis that the Granger girl would eventually face was all too familiar. She resolved to keep a close eye on the young girl, as she would with Harry, but would it be enough? She wouldn't be inside every classroom, behind every tree, or even in every common room discussion. Minerva could only hope that the apparent acquaintance between the two would grow stronger in the face of the enemy who, in light of their heritage, had many different faces.

"To Gryffindor," she half-laughed as she toasted her tumbler of Firewhisky to the air, before searching the glass cabinet for her wireless - it had been too long since she had last tuned in to _The Yeomen_, and Ogden's Old went so well with radio soaps.

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Thanks for sticking around, and many more thanks for the reviews and PMs. Expect a bit more inter-House banter and such in the next chapter, as well as classes, of course. Many thanks for getting this far; like I said, I'll be taking some time to properly frame the rest of the universe and timeline, etc., so keep your eyes peeled if you're interested! :)


	7. Hermione Finds A Rival

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Hermione seeks out like minds, Ron gets a rude awakening, and Harry wants to blow himself up.

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Hermione Finds a Rival  
**

_Snap! You two are simply woeful. Ah well, more carrot sticks for me!_

pop pop pop

_Did you hear that?_

_Probably the cable box down the road. Bloody engineer was meant to come down last week!_

**-Bzzzt-**

_That's the doorbell... give us a sec._

_I think not, dear. Tonight is a family night, right Hermione?_

"Hermione!"

"Y-yes Mu- ?" Hermione started as she awoke, groggily meeting the large, hazel eyes of a girl who certainly wasn't her mother.

"Hermione," the girl repeated, 'we're gonna be late for breakfast! It's Orientation today, remember?"

"I... yes?"she replied, still struggling to connect with her surroundings. "Y-yes, I remember. Thank you, Parvati. I'll meet you all in the Great Hall."

"You're sure?" asked Parvati, her eyes still fastened to the sleepy witch as she ambled towards the door. "I was going to wait in the common room anyway, it's no bother."

"Yes, please!" Hermione assured her before covering her mouth to catch a yawn. 'Go get something to eat."

Parvati's gaze was unrelenting. "Are you sure everything is okay? None of us have done anything wrong, have we? I know I sometimes go on a little -"

"No, no, it's nothing! Please go," Hermione said impatiently, sighing as Parvati crossed her arms. "I had an unpleasant dream, nothing more. I would be very grateful if you could leave me in peace, now."

Parvati shook her head as a sad smile crossed her lips. "That's no way to greet a helping hand, you know. But you're forgiven!"

She visibly deflated when Hermione sent back a scowl in return. Bowing her head in reluctant compliance, Parvati left the dormitory, her steps echoing as she trotted down the stone stairwell. The bushy-haired girl rolled her eyes at thin air, launched herself out of the four-poster bed and headed towards the bathroom as she enjoyed her hard-won solitude.

Hermione Granger, first-year Gryffindor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was still unsure of how to approach her dormitory mates of the past forty-eight hours. For most eleven-year-olds starting boarding school, this wouldn't be unreasonable, but Hermione was used to making judgements on the fly. It had become a necessary habit over the past year.

Parvati certainly meant well, but her admittedly admirable attempts at conversation seemed so forced. Having had experience of gaining friends through pity at primary school, Hermione felt more satisfied being alone - not that she didn't value her own company more than vapid socialising, of course - and it would be best to nip a potential several-year weed of pity in the bud when she could. Parvati already gave the impression that she possessed the perseverance for such antics, in Hermione's opinion.

Lavender Brown, another one of the housemates that she happened to share the dormitory with, proved herself to be a fantastic beast of powerfully magical ignorance. Hermione was certain that most mainstream magizoologists would agree.

_"I'm just so sad that Muggles can't see places like this," _went one of the young witch's idiotic remark of several during Feast Night. Hermione snarled as she brushed her teeth, unable to expel the image of Lavender's vacant expression from the forefront of her mind.

Whether her words were laced with malicious intent or not was mostly irrelevant. To Hermione (and many other Muggle-borns, she would wager), Lavender's declaration of pity for those lacking magic illustrated the potency of the superiority complex which plagued wizardkind. They had no idea, nor genuine desire at large to learn more about their 'mundane' counterparts. Lavender _was_ only eleven, but she also represented the product of centuries of witches and wizards being completely oblivious of the world around them, and so, Hermione could not help but find her infuriating.

That being said, even when accounting for her parents' fate and her subsequent introduction to a world where she had as much influence as some dumb animals, Hermione was disappointed in herself. It would sound insane to many, but she had time to come to terms with the possibility that her parents' memories were irreparable, if she was even fortunate enough to find them in the future. Hermione naturally harboured a reasonable load of resentment towards wizards because of this.

But the wealth of knowledge available at Hogwarts was too enthralling for her to ignore. In fact, just the late nights spent perusing the Weasleys' personal library had given her a renewed sense of purpose. So why was she bothered in the slightest about her peers?

She had been friendless for most of her short life, anyway: another seven lonely years would be business as usual.

It was high time to make the best of things, she decided. There was more than enough variety and depth within the curriculum, and then the archives of the Castle, to keep her occupied for several lifetimes on end. The mere recollection of her syllabus was still enough to make her stomach do cartwheels, her sulky mood be damned.

Pushing negative thoughts about her housemates to the periphery of her mind, Hermione reminded herself that the first-year Orientation Address was less than an hour away, and students from all four houses would be present. She was hardly prohibited from interacting with out-of-House students when not in class, so studying with Ravenclaws in the library sounded promising, at least.

And who knew? Perhaps today _would_ provide an opportunity to make real friends (barring Ron) at Hogwarts.

_But I don't _really_ care about that_, she thought to herself, heaving her colossal backpack over her shoulder as she turned towards the dormitory exit._  
_

Hermione made her way down to the Great Hall in a couple of minutes flat; an admirable feat considering she had only spent two days living in the ancient maze of a school. When she approached the Gryffindor table, however, she saw that Parvati, Lavender, Fay Dunbar and the 'other girl' whose name she wouldn't dare pronounce were engaged in what appeared to be the most riveting of conversations.

While Hermione felt assured that it was the least important discussion in the world next to what happened last night on _Coronation Street, _she didn't want to disrupt the flow by sitting with them, resolving instead to share her company with a copy of _Groundbreaking Enchantments: The Muggleite School of Artificing. _Setting her satchel down beside her to pour a glass of milk, she flipped through the fluorescent covers to find the opening of the third chapter:

_III_

_Breckel's Array, Standard Septilateral Functioning and You_

_There exists a nigh unequivocal consensus among those dedicated to the pursuit of Artificing: that the most common complaint one is likely to hear from a novice practitioner is 'Teacher! I have run out of space!' Though the legendary Merlin of the Dark Ages was revered in his day as the 'Prince of Enchanters', magic in manufacturing was arguably a painfully cumbersome endeavour, even for the most accomplished of wizards. It would remain so until the late 15th century, when Bavarian Gitte Breckel authored a revolutionary framework for calibrating multiple enchantments on small objects and wide areas alike._

_Oddly enough, the origins of Breckel's Array, which was named after its critically unsung designer can be found in the developments of Western music during the Renaissance. Prior to the 1450s, composers across most of the European continent were accustomed to writing notation for each unique voice or instrument on separate sheets of manuscript, allocating a single clef for each part. Following the advent of the Muggle printing press, writing in a full score format became increasingly, albeit very gradually popular, and it was in the winter of 1484 that the sheet music of a little-known English ensemble piece would find itself in the hands of a young witch who had sailed west from the continent. _

_It was then that Gitte Breckel would experience her personal period of enlightenment, answering several questions that few enchanters before her had even thought of aski-_

"Hey, Hermione!"

Her concentration compromised, the young witch shot a cold stare towards the source of the interruption. Entering the Great Hall was a bespectacled boy with messy black hair, a disturbingly wide grin and a set of textbooks tucked under one arm as he waved with the other. The oddly spirited Harry Potter didn't seem to notice that his shadow had been replaced by a gangly, red-haired spectre, and if the bevy of students and staff bumping into Ronald Weasley was any indication, nor did anyone else.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," Harry said jubilantly as he occupied the bench opposite Hermione, laying his books down in front of hers. Ron's limp form slumped against his arm, moaning as he clawed at a bowl of porridge which sat just shy of his half-hearted, though still impressive reach.

"Good morning to you too, Harry Potter," Hermione replied, meeting his cheerful expression with thinly disguised suspicion. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Nothing exactly," he said, apparently unfazed. "I was just hoping that you wouldn't mind me joining you. Ron here -"

"What about your friends?" Hermione interjected, her eyes narrowing slightly, "I was under the impression that you and Neville Longbottom were joined at the hip."

If he had taken offence, Harry didn't show it. In fact, he chuckled a little.

"Not even," he said, scratching his head. "We spend quite a bit of time apart, really. I tend to 'unstick' myself when Draco lingers around, since getting rid of him is like scraping barnacles off of a boat! "Course it's only been two days, so..."

His grin, which he had sustained until that point, fell somewhat as Hermione raised a bushy eyebrow at his pathetic quip.

"So, er - Ron here," he said shakily, gesturing towards the red-haired boy who stared longingly at the bowl of porridge, "tells me that you're interested in modular spells. That's one of my favourites!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow in faint surprise. Modular spell theory was hardly casual reading for first-years.

"It's fascinating," Hermione responded after a moment with a small, yet bitter grimace, "but I don't think I'll have the spark for it - few people do."

Harry scoffed, though he looked a little nervous. "Please, Ron says you're bloody brilliant! What are you reading, by the way?"

_I can always count on you, eh Ron?_

"Oh?" Hermione articulated, looking down her nose at the earmarked pages in front of her. "It's - well - intermediate Artificing. Nothing too deep. Less advanced than it sounds, if I'm being honest."

It was Harry's turn to give her a disbelieving look.

"No need to be modest," he said dryly. "You never are when I'm around, anyway!"

Hermione felt the corners of her mouth twitch despite herself. "I will admit," she said, "Artificing boggles the mind when you try to tackle it head on. But I've had just under a year to do nothing but experiment... so yes, that is definitely my favourite subject."

Hermione tried looking at nothing in particular as she attempted to change the topic.

"So what's yours? Charms, then?" she finished quietly. As Hermione looked back at him, Harry wore a rather uncomfortable expression, though it soon faded as he began to speak.

"It's up there," he said, "but I love Sorcery in general, to be honest. You can almost see the wizlets in the air..."

"You what?"

Hermione and Harry turned their attention to the croaky voice. Ron was wide awake, for now at least.

"The, er... just a quirk, Doge said," Harry said weakly as he peered over at the High Table. The wispy-haired teacher was chatting away with his tiny, chipper friend as usual, though to Doge's left, Hermione noticed a tall, sallow-faced wizard whom she didn't recognise. His shoulders were hunched over, beady black eyes glued to the silver goblet before him as he stirred it with military precision.

"That man in black wasn't at the feast, was he?" she asked aloud.

"Who - ah!" said Ron in realisation, squinting at the wizard as he conversed with the two elder Professors. "Yeah, I know him. Snope or something."

"The Potioneering guy?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, him," Ron confirmed, eyes fixed on the High Table, "met him at my brother Bill's work party a couple years ago. Taught Bill everything he knows about curses, and then some. Absolute nutter he is, and in desperate need of a mint or two."

"Is it just me," Harry said with uncertainty, "or is he a dead ringer for the Sheriff of Nottingham?"

Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion. "You mean the same Sheriff of Nottingham who hasn't been seen alive since the Crusades?"

Harry made to open his mouth, but the ringing of the Castle bells denied Hermione an answer. As the elder students filed out of the Hall, presumably for extra-curricular activities, Professor McGonagall rose from her seat at the High Table to address the Houses.

"If the first-years would please stay behind," she requested, "you will be briefed very shortly."

Surveying the remaining children in the Hall, Hermione was unsurprised that almost all the first-years had formed close-knit groups. A persistent thought in the back of her mind insisted that Ron and Harry wouldn't be bad company at all, but how realistic was that option? Harry, if not both of them would be especially popular, if only because of their families.

The memory of Harry and Malfoy's brief exchange of approval before the Sorting flashed past her; according to Mr Weasley's after-work ramblings, Malfoy's relatives were staunch traditionalists even among the upper class. A tag-along Muggle-born would never fit in those sorts of circles, and she would be a fool to blindly assume that Harry (or even Ron) might think otherwise.

"Hermione?"

"Mm?" She turned back to Harry, whose features betrayed the slightest hint of concern behind his amusement.

"You were somewhere else for a minute," he said, his eyes darting all over the place as if to illustrate his point.

"It's nothing," she replied, shaking her head quickly.

That pesky thought returned with vigour; it was Harry who interrupted _her_ reading session to make idle conversation - the same Harry who tried to help her in the Alley, and the same one who was just as enamoured with the Castle as she was two nights ago. And what of Ron? The youngest Weasley son notoriously avoided human contact whenever he had the chance, and yet he had refused to leave her side for the past year.

Hermione considered the possibility that her judgement of the boys was a little premature.

A violent _crack _echoed from the other side of the Hall. With the focus of the first-years secured, Professor McGonagall blew the smoke away from the tip of her wand as her eyes scanned the House tables.

"Now that I have your attention," she said primly as the murmurs died down, "we welcome you, once again, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and would trust that you are all settling into your Houses with little effort. Mr Watts?"

A younger-looking wizard with close-cropped brown hair withdrew a tiny brass box from his robes, pinching it twice. Reams of scrolls suddenly popped out of thin air on each House table, one landing in front of each pupil.

"The Hogwarts Almanac," McGonagall said with a sour look as the first-years feverishly tore through the seals. "It records your personalised class and extra-curricular schedules, and is the definitive manual on School ethics, rules and regulations. You will also find a comprehensive map of the Castle grounds, a calendar complete with significant astronomical events and a list of all current members of staff. Every scroll is evaluated and amended at termly intervals, and as such, misuse or neglect of an Almanac will not be tolerated. Repairs or replacements cost a Galleon and five Sickles each, otherwise one must serve a month's detention in the library with Madam Pince. This is your only warning, so take special heed."

Scouring the barrage of information as it zoomed across the parchment with every touch, Hermione was in awe of the sophisticated piece of magic lying in front of her. How long would it be before she was capable of creating an artifact like that? Looking across the House tables sadly revealed that few others shared her excitement in the long run, where chins rested on hands and scrolls were used as rolling pins. She supposed that many of them had grown up surrounded by papers like the _Prophet,_ but that wasn't nearly as impressive. In comparison, this scroll was probably as powerful as her parents' computer.

_What are Mum and Dad doing now? _she thought to herself, _Do they even know something is missing?_

_Did I ever belong there?_

"Upon your first entry into the Castle," McGonagall continued, "you were told that you had been chosen as the Union's best and brightest. Hogwarts makes no mistakes, and as such, each one of you shall be expected to satisfy the Lower School's exit requirements to progress to the Intermediate level of study. At the end of a pupil's second year, one must achieve a passing grade in all W.O.M.B.A.T-standard lessons taught in the core syllabus."

A round of nervous murmurs echoed through the Hall, though they were swiftly extinguished by yet another _crack_ from McGonagall's wand.

"As I mentioned mere seconds earlier," she said, thin-lipped, "Hogwarts does _not _make mistakes. We acknowledge that W.O.M.B.A.T examinations are designed to challenge the able fourteen-year-old British wizard: a grade of proficiency and understanding outstripped by Hogwarts pupils in the middle of one's second year. These tests are mostly written and hardly trying when compared to our Lower School curriculum, which should be a much more pressing concern for all of you."

Harry gulped.

"Hogwarts students attend eight classes during their first two years of schooling. Our Latin and Cardinals programmes form the foundation of the School's approach to understanding magical theory, and are mandatory until receipt of an O.W.L certificate... "

For Hermione, McGonagall hadn't touched upon anything new, having re-read the School prospectus more times than she would care to admit. She was certain that the sleeping Ron in front of her was nowhere near as informed, though.

"Ron," she hissed under her breath, "_Ronald, _wake up for Pete's sake!"

Harry, who overheard Hermione's futile attempt, apparently thought that pinching Ron by the ear was an appropriate solution.

"_Yeeeeouch! _What's your bloody problem, woman?"

Harry's satisfied grin, which widened upon spotting Hermione's look of outrage (and the resultant wave of laughter across the Gryffindor table) indicated that he thought it was a brilliant idea indeed. McGonagall, naturally, did not agree with her House.

"You have something to share with us, Mr Weasley?" she asked with a frustrated sigh.

The Hall fell deathly silent; all eyes rested on Ron as he tried to soothe his reddened ear lobe.

"Any rules about violating fellow pupils, Professor?" he growled through gritted teeth.

A pair of writhen lips told Hermione that McGonagall was distinctly unimpressed.

"A point from Gryffindor, Mr Weasley," McGonagall replied, adjusting her glasses as she looked down at him, "and be grateful that it isn't ten."

The remainder of McGonagall's seminar was fairly uneventful, save for the sheer number of extra-curricular activities she mentioned being available to the student body. According to the Professor, card-carrying Hogwarts Historians were given free tickets to museums, shrines and other heritage sites the world over, though their entry requirements sounded rather steep. Nonetheless, Hermione was not one to be deterred. She had to get herself into that group, if nothing else.

"Might sign up for the Gobstones Club," Ron said with faint interest as the trio left the Great Hall for the courtyard. "Pick up a nasty trick or two and get back at Fred, the arse... you, Harry?"

The bespectacled boy turned towards the looming North Tower in thought, remaining that way for a long while. Hermione was a little puzzled; it wasn't a particularly challenging question, after all.

"I've given it a lot of thought over the past few days," he said finally, glancing back at them with a smile. "Doge said my Dad - my rea- erm, never mind - was good at blowing people up."

"He was," Ron said matter-of-factly, hastily adding "it's true!" after Hermione shot him a reproachful look.

How could they talk about violence in such a trivial manner? Wizards really were insane, she thought.

"Well, yes," Harry conceded, "Neville and Draco said he was a professional duellist, so I thought that I should learn a bit more about it by, you know..."

"Getting yourself blown up?" Hermione finished for him with a raised eyebrow.

"But Hermione," he replied, shrugging meekly, "it's my heritage. Kind of."

"It's barbaric," she said with disgust, "based upon millennia of male aggression and such ridiculous concepts as 'satisfaction'! What even _is _that?'"

The two of them looked at her, dumbfounded.

"The hell did that even come from?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Ron joined in, "witches do it too, just as much as -"

"What kind of satisfaction," Hermione huffed, ignoring Ron's rebuttal, "can you possibly derive from cursing someone's backside on fire?"

"To be fair," Harry said smirking, "you're asking for it with your back turned, surely?"

Hermione shook her head as Ron coughed over a barking laugh. "Honestly Harry, you'd be far better off playing Quidditch,' she muttered, rolling her eyes, 'at least they wouldn't be _trying_ to kill you."

Ron took a step back, as if physically struck.

"I think you broke her, Harry."

"Oh! We should sit there," Hermione mused, "it has a perfect blend of shade _and _reading light!"

"False alarm," said Ron, sniggering as he and Harry followed close behind.

Hermione peered up at the sky and inhaled; today was a day for discovery. She dived onto the bench in the desired area and fished _Groundbreaking Enchantments _back out of her satchel. She would finish it all today, and even if it was only for now, savour it in good company.

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."


	8. Ron Talks Some Quidditch

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY:** Seamus gets messy, Harry gets wand-happy, and the first-years have a swell time with Snape in Potioneering.

* * *

**Chapter Eight - Ron Talks Some Quidditch**

Classes had finally arrived, and as far as Harry was concerned, they couldn't have come around quickly enough. Though he thought of himself as an avid reader, Harry had grown weary of not putting what he'd read from his spellbooks into practice. Each new incantation or wand movement memorised would tempt fate even further; he had gone as far as attempting spells in the dormitory the weekend before, while the others played with Ron's smuggled Fanged Frisbee near the Great Lake. These experiments were all wandless, of course.

Harry liked his wand a lot; maybe too much, in his opinion. The overwhelming sensation of confidence he felt when holding it actually scared him a little, and therefore was firmly against using it until his first Sorcery lesson. This restriction, of course, resulted in occasional bouts of minimal success in between a week of miserable failure.

"_Torque!"_

A knobbly birch twig lay in front of him, writhing and twitching on his pillow as it struggled to wrap around itself. Harry had gotten the bit of branch to twist a third of the way down its length so far, but that wasn't good enough for him to deem the spell accomplished by any means.

"Christ... come on, _Torque!_" he hissed as he waggled his index finger in a spiral motion. The twig refused to respond.

"Damn it, why won't you - ha!"

It was as if someone had flicked a switch he hadn't even noticed existed. He'd forgotten the wizlets!

Harry carefully considered each milestone of the transformation formula in order of succession, traced them backwards, and only then did he reflect on the incantation, wand motion and spell's effects, just as _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration _had advised. He visualised the twig re-arranging itself before his eyes, contorting into shape just because it could.

The wizlets were back again. He didn't know where they were or what they looked like, but they were_ wobbling - _a lot. He searched for all that he could glean from them, namely the motion and rhythm.

_I'll get you this time, _he thought triumphantly before composing himself. _C turns l, P cuts t... t/P closes l/C. Shape. Break. Fix. __Three clockwise twists, thrust... wobbly wizlets on twos._

_"Torque._"

The strip of wood complied and twisted around itself, forming a perfect single-helix pattern.

Harry whooped and jumped for joy on his four-poster bed, brandishing the newly coiled twig with pride. The Helix Mold was the first textbook spell he'd cast perfectly so far. A win was a win, even if it was a 'trick of no consequence' as the distinguished Emeric Switch had described.

Grabbing a second, unused twig from inside his drawer, he tried the spell once more.

"_Torque - _wicked!"

Thrilled even further by his repeat success, Harry pumped a fist in the air. This was amazing; he didn't even have to close his eyes like he still did with the pebbles. He hadn't felt a sense of accomplishment this strong since...

"Alice..."

"Who?"

Harry spun around; in all his excitement, he hadn't noticed a baffled-looking Neville coming through the door.

"Ah - all right Neville?" Harry said awkwardly, scratching his head. "Just a funny memory is all."

"Oh, cool." The round-faced boy headed straight for his drawer, pulled out a thin, worn leather-bound book and retreated to his own bed. Harry didn't think Neville was the bookish type, but decided to keep that to himself, having only known him for a week.

It wasn't the last time that Harry would find Neville poring over the beaten text. Wherever the Gryffindors (and occasionally Draco, much to Harry's chagrin) went, Neville would at some point find a bench, log or patch of grass to perch on while reading, scribbling something in its pages every now and again. Aside from frequently mistaking Neville's lack of group participation for his complete absence, no one else paid him any mind.

"Rule Number One, Potter," Draco once said in response to a question Harry had specifically meant for Ron, "is that a proper wizard never asks another what he's reading."

If that was true, it surely would contradict the format of their lessons, in which many assignments were carried out in pairs. Incidentally, Harry and Neville worked together for the Gryffindors' first class of the year: Vitalemy.

"I swear, Harry," Neville said panting as they raced towards Greenhouse Three on Monday morning, "you're gonna love it! I hear they've got - whoa, slow down - Tentaculae!"

In the words of Professor Grubbly-Plank, an elderly witch with a frighteningly sharp chin, Vitalemy was 'the study of magic in life and all its vessels, from the spiny and the hairy, to the squishy and the shrivelled.'

Despite the variety of exotic plants of varying shapes, colours and odours housed within the tube-shaped building, Harry had the distinct impression that the Professor's interests were a tad more sanguine. For all of his earlier enthusiasm, Neville had in fact lost his own usually ruddy complexion: his cheeks at one point rivalled the egg-white shade of his shirt.

"Now," she said in conclusion of her introductory speech as she waved her wand to the other end of the room, "I wonder if anyone could name the specimen illustrated in this diagram? Shan't be surprised if not."

Behind Grubbly-Plank, a large tapestry unfurled itself from its hangings at the far end of the greenhouse, zooming into view in front of the class. Harry heard a faint whimper to his left.

"Yes, Miss -?"

"Granger, Professor," Hermione finished for her as she put her hand back down. "If I'm not mistaken, is that the musculature of a Clabbert?"

"Right in one, Miss Granger," Grubbly-Plank cheered, even giving the younger witch a thumbs-up. "Five points to Gryffindor! I'm impressed."

Hermione blushed, muttering something that Harry thought sounded like "well it _was _in the suggested material..."

"The Clabbert is the most in-depth case study we'll be working with this year," Grubbly-Plank explained with gusto, "and though we will be examining dozens of boring old plants for most of this term, I thought it would be a smashing treat to add something special for the holidays, so if you're all good, we'll be dissecting one of these rascals for Christmas! How's that sound?"

Cheers from the first year Gryffindors filled the greenhouse, loud enough to rouse one of the toothy plants in an iron cage near the roof. In the midst of all the excitement, even Harry hadn't realised that his partner had fainted a few minutes after the fact.

"I just heard her say 'dissect' and everything went black," Neville recalled after returning from the Hospital Wing that afternoon. "Blood and guts give me the creeps. Uncle Algie told me we'd only be doing plants this year!"

* * *

With Mrs Plinny's Wizarding Studies lecture being cancelled due to an undisclosed emergency, the Gryffindor boys (with Draco and Blaise in tow) naturally spent the lesson ambling the grounds near the Forbidden Forest. Ron, who lifted one of Mr Hagrid's coveted cabbages and had taken to tossing it around, felt that the extra time was a prime opportunity to explain the rules of Quidditch to a thoroughly confused Harry.

"So you have three goal posts, and two balls?" asked Harry, deftly grabbing the leafy bundle while scanning the area for signs of Hagrid. "Why not just the one each? Or three Quiffers, even?"

The others sniggered as Ron let out a mournful cry.

"Quaffle," he said, exasperated, "and that's just how it is. Adds a little... desperation, you know? For the Chasers _and _the Keeper, so everybody wins! Or loses. Beautiful game, mate. _The _beautiful game."

"Bollocks," Dean said through a snort, kicking another cabbage towards Ron's head which, if Harry was honest with himself, was indeed an attractive target.

"As much as I hate agreeing with Muggle-lovers," Draco chipped in behind him, "Taverner is onto something there. Quidditch is a dead sport, Weasley. Come into the fold!"

"No one asked you, Malfoy," Ron sneered as both he and Dean glared at the blond Slytherin. "And why are you lot following us, again?"

"Potter," Draco called, cutting off Ron's path as he and Blaise caught up to Harry. "You'll come for supper at the Slytherin table, won't you? Longbottom will be joining us, of course."

Recalling his experience with the first-year Slytherins so far, specifically the incident involving Greengrass and Parkinson, Harry thought better of it. But before he could open his mouth, a massive and especially foul-smelling cabbage hurtled towards them, exploding on contact with Draco's head and cloak.

Seamus, the likely suspect, was howling with laughter. The rest of the group soon followed suit.

"You... agh!" the now grimy Draco shrieked, ripping off his cloak to examine the damage.

"C'mon mate," Neville said, heaving in an effort not to laugh further, "a couple of Cleaning Charms and- "

"On Albino Duttur Wool? It's_ charm-resistant_!"

"Trolls for parents, sounds like," Ron stage-whispered to a hysterical Seamus as a gruff voice boomed from the distance.

"Oi - POTTER?! What're yeh doin' on my cabbage patch?"

Blaise took this as his cue to leave. He ushered a near-tearful Draco away from the imminent reckoning and shouted, "Offer still stands, Potter!" over his shoulder as the two swiftly made their exit.

* * *

Latin that evening was very straightforward, though rather dull. It was taught by the bald, goateed and insufferably pedantic Mr Deek in a dusty old classroom packed with tattered dictionaries. Harry and Hermione spent most of the period taking turns to poke Ron awake with their quills. Unfortunately, nothing got past the hawkish Deek, who was particularly incensed by the intermittent snoring from the front row. The next Castle bell would leave Ron with a fifteen- House point penalty, two nights of detention and three feet of lines for his trouble.

"You got off lightly if you're asking me," Hermione told him as they headed back to Gryffindor Tower that night.

Ron gave her a sidelong glance. "I'm not, actually."

Hermione went on, undeterred. "Surely you of all people should understand how crucial this class is? Your whole world relies on Latin!"

Harry nearly stopped her there, but chose to bite his tongue. If he was aware that wizards used several other languages to cast magic, Hermione was undoubtedly just as informed. Ron evidently agreed as he responded with his signature shrug and mumble, lazily tickling the Dragon's Head entrance to the Common Room.

The morning after, Artificing proved itself as one of the more academically taxing classes of the curriculum. The Double practical in the Crafts Wing required a great deal of concentration as well as the utmost caution if the irritable instructor, Mr Watts, was to be believed.

"Etch a sequence out-of-place? You've ruined your vessel. Sloppy binding? You've blown off a hand, maybe an arm. Thinking you can save time by dipping your gravers in sigil filler? Well that's just moronic, but can I say I haven't seen it attempted in this classroom? No, and that's why I have the charred limbs of little Brutus Bragge here to prove it!"

Shrieks across the workshop assaulted Harry's hearing as the young teacher leapt up onto his table to flip open the iron trunk resting on top. A toy mummy sprang out, and scattered laughs eventually accompanied the ear-piercing screams. They went straight to work soon after the excitement subsided, enchanting a wooden block to make it feel twice as light. It was readily apparent to Harry that extra reading had indeed paid off for his partner, Hermione.

"Right Harry, third line now," she said brightly, looking across the room through her magnifying glass. "You know, I think we're in the lead!"

"You might be," Harry answered, painting over the next row of sigils as meticulously as he could. "I still don't have any idea what a Shinar is. It's not in the instructions so -"

"Oh, we need that! It reads everything in one script, which is crucial because I thought it would be nice to add this neat Etruscan segment. They really knew how to convey weight and- "

"_Finniga-an! _Don't you _dare- _"

Blaise Zabini's squeal, the clattering of silver instruments and a small explosion followed Mr Watts' protest in quick succession.

The rest of the lesson would prove to be a challenge for the young Potter wizard. Not because of the material itself; in fact, he felt he would cope just fine on his own, but keeping up with Hermione was nothing short of exhausting. She really _was_ in her own league.

His spirits would unfortunately diminish further by the end of their first Theurgy class. It was the first subject in which he couldn't get a grasp on anything, which was worrying as no one had a harder time of it than he did. The class had been split up into groups of five; four pupils joined hands in a circle while the fifth sat in the centre, chanting hymns for a Warming Ritual.

As one of the links in the circle, it was Harry's job to focus on the hymn - sung by Theodore Nott, a Slytherin - and propagate the "essence of the wilds'' or whatever it was on to the next link, but that proved even more difficult than it sounded. Professor Veness, a plump and gaudy-robed witch who smelled strongly of incense, only succeeded in frustrating him.

"You must appeal to the magic, children," she said airily while regarding the afternoon sun (on Tuesdays, the class was set in the Middle Courtyard), "but make your demands explicit, always in reverence, of course... take heed that the gifts of the Wild are not yours to keep."

_What is she on about? _he griped in thought, struggling to follow Veness' cryptic guidelines.

"Harry mate," Neville said with a frustrated sigh, "I can actually feel you resisting. Loosen up a little!"

"He can't help it, Longbottom," Draco said to his right, "you know, being Jumpsparked and all."

"What's _that _supposed to mean?" Harry hissed, resisting every urge to wrap his currently intertwined fingers around Draco's neck.

"Just ignore him mate," Neville whispered in annoyance, sending Draco a warning glance. The blond boy simply shrugged in response.

Harry was furious with himself due to his own poor performance, and Draco's comments, malicious or not, only exacerbated matters. If this was the Malfoy heir's idea of approval, he really felt for his enemies. Although, Harry reckoned that focusing on his dislike for Draco was likely disrupting his progress, so he made an extra effort to concentrate for the rest of the class. The group did eventually feel a few brushes of warmth (except for Draco who remained 'positively frigid'), but it had already been decided by Fate herself: Harry Potter would struggle in this class. He made the long walk from the courtyard to the Great Hall with his head hung in shame.

"It's only one class," Neville said as they sat down for dinner. "You were getting there eventually, and you've been brilliant at everything else. Don't we have four more classes anyway?"

"Whatever," he grumbled, "Theurgy is supposed to be _true_ magic, like Professor Veness said. That and we can't afford to fail anything."

"Yeah, and Sir Albus is totally a celebrated theurgist," Neville said sardonically. "You're being a baby, Harry. I'll get you up to speed with this and you can help me with Artificing. Deal?"

"You'd do well to ask Hermione."

"Wouldn't appreciate the Grand Circuit banter," Neville said, shaking his head. Harry found it hard not to agree, though he wasn't that much more familiar with duelling than Hermione was, save having an interest in trying it himself. Nevertheless, he sighed in acceptance and pumped Neville's outstretched hand.

"All right, then. Deal." It wasn't an all-curing plaster, but Harry did feel slightly better in accepting Neville's help.

Regardless, his Theurgy woes were soon forgotten when Hermione ushered him towards the Hogwarts Library that evening. Harry was floored as the mammoth ebony double doors to the entrance creaked open, revealing a well-lit labyrinth of bookcases and study tables. It had to be more than twice the size of the Great Hall, at least.

"It's... I'm..."

"Speechless?" Hermione finished for him. "Good, because Madam Pince gets a trifle mad at chatterboxes!"

Madam Pince, the Hogwarts librarian, was an intimidating member of staff - even more so than Mr Hagrid - but she was exceedingly helpful. Her untarnished memory of the Castle catalogue's divisions and placement within helped Harry to discover a couple of hidden gems, in his opinion.

In addition to making a promising start on his first Artificing report, Harry took the opportunity to borrow an eclectic selection of books, not limited to _Wands of Pride: A History of the Duel in Europe Volumes I - IV, Imaging Exercises for the Aspiring Sorcerer _and even _JUMP, _a rather tongue-in-cheek encyclopaedia listing all currently known magical species of frogs, complete with three-dimensional virtual projections for each article. Although, it made him feel guilty for neglecting his own familiar, and so Harry resolved to visit Hedwig at least once before the weekend was over.

The next day delivered a double Cardinals lesson, and nothing else, at least where regular classes were concerned. School hours during every other Wednesday were predominantly dedicated to extra-curricular activities; Harry and Neville were looking very forward to the Duelling Club's introductory session. Although, they would have to trudge through three hours of mind-numbing magical theory before the fact.

Or so Harry thought. He had skimmed through the _Magical Theory _textbook once during the summer, but the sheer depth of information contained within its pages led Harry to assume that it would be a necessary item for his entire school career. He felt lucky then, to find an instructor in Professor Johnson, an austere yet inspired witch whose insights into the foundations of witchcraft were more poetic than mathematical in nature. Perhaps, Harry theorised, it was the nature of magic itself that informed Johnson's interpretation of the subject, rather than the other way around.

"How," Johnson spoke softly before the hall of eighty or so first-years, idly fingering the quill behind her ear as she circled the podium, " 'how' is our application, our doing, our experiencing of the mysteries. Sorcery, potionmaking, divination... but what of our understanding? Is wisdom not that which the mightiest and most accomplished of witches have prized beyond all other qualities? Of course it is, for it is only wisdom, and the pursuit of it that separates us from all other magical beasts. In this age, more so than any other, the mission to discover _why_ directly informs our potential to understand_ how."_

The class, for the most part, was stunned. To Harry's left, Ron was sound asleep as usual, and to his right, Hermione was on the verge of tears.

"Of course," Johnson added blithely, "you are only first-years, so you shouldn't expect to stumble upon any earth-shattering 'whys' until post-O.W.L level. Instead, we'll start from the bottom.

"From John Chapter One, Verse One: In the beginning was the Word... Get out a compass and a dictionary, and I want to see DDNT and today's date along the top of your notes."

By the end of the three-hour lecture, poetry did not begin to describe magical theory in Harry's opinion. It was everything and anything, or at the very least, whatever it wanted to be at any given moment. One constant remained, though: as long as a wizard truly understood what he wanted, his desires would (in theory) be attainable.

That is what they would learn in their first lesson: the Median Epiphany. The Professor briefly explored the theory's current flaws in practice, most notably the production of precious metals and nutritional value in Transfigured food, but she remained optimistic that these exceptions were simply hurdles for the world of witches to overcome, rather than the designed balancing of power between the races which she grudgingly presented as the prevailing school of thought. Harry couldn't help but share her sentiments.

"Essays on Simple Forms are due in for next Thursday," she called out as the bell rang. "I expect no less than a foot in length from each of you. If you get lost, just apply the Ring of Three and you'll find your way."

The pupils staged a mass exodus of the Cardinals hall. Poor Anthony Goldstein, just under two-thirds of Harry's own height, was ruthlessly trampled upon as the first-years scrambled towards the double doors. Harry had a different destination entirely, heading straight for the Professor's end of the hall.

"Professor Johnson?" he said, approaching the podium with increasingly wary steps. Johnson didn't appear to be in the mood to waste time, swishing her wand rapidly to arrange stray pieces of parchment and ink bottles into neat piles.

The Professor's eyes flickered as she looked up from her notes. "Oh, Mr Potter was it?" Harry nodded. "I was impressed with your participation today. Good work, for sure. I'll be expecting more from you in the future."

Harry blushed, though he honestly couldn't tell if Johnson was being genuine from her facial expression alone.

"I was just wondering, Professor," he said, "about the Simple Forms? I don't really know who to ask, but what you said fits these little thoughts I have when I cast magic... accidentally, you know." He didn't want to get in trouble for practicing Sorcery early, if there was such a thing.

Johnson merely inclined her head, so he carried on full steam.

"Before it happens, it's like there are these little objects flying around, but I don't... really know exactly where they are, or what they look like. It's like they have their own secret colours or sounds. But when you described the ways Simple Forms move, I knew just what you were talking about... I think... sorry, Professor, I -"

"When is your first Sorcery lesson, Mr Potter?" she asked, her dark brown eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He couldn't tell if it was a sign of concern or pity.

"Tomorrow Professor," he replied with a faint tremor, "all day tomorrow."

"Right," she said, nodding once again. "I'm sure it's all nerves. It should not affect your concentration while writing, so I expect that essay in on time next week, and strive for Outstanding quality. Understood?"

"Yes, madam!"

The Professor quirked an eyebrow. "Good."

Harry bowed his head and scurried off to the double doors, not wanting to be late for the Duelling Club. Just as he was about to pass the threshold, however, Johnson called him back.

"And Mr Potter?"

"Professor?"

"Look after your wand," she said, her lips betraying the slightest hint of a smile.

* * *

Wizard's duels were fast; incredibly so, and magnitudes more punishing if a combatant wasn't absolutely focused for even the briefest of moments. That was how Professor Toothill, the Lead Duelling Instructor and Arms &amp; Tactics Mistress at Hogwarts explained it, her ruddy face alight with rapt enthusiasm as pupils from the Upper School demonstrated this to sobering effect.

"Now this _is_ a Health and Safety drill, but let's go over a couple of statistics first." Toothill said, vaulting herself onto the (then empty) duelling platform behind her with energy that Harry would expect from a witch at least half the age she looked.

"A typical competitive round lasts no more than twenty-four seconds. The record for a duellist's rate of fire in a Single Wand event currently stands at one hundred and eighty-eight point three rounds per minute, the median number of spells in a Grand Circuit competitor's mastered repertoire is forty-seven, and any witch or wizard aspiring to duel long-term should be wary of the average of six serious, non-lethal injuries sustained per annum over a fifty-year period. I think it's safe to say that we are _not _the Card Collectors' Club."

How right she was, Harry silently agreed. Toothill went on to explain the basic principles of a sporting duel, while the towering Professor Merrythought (styled as Hogwarts' Abjuration Mistress) and the diminutive Professor Flitwick eventually replaced the roles of the upperclassmen, displaying a level of skill and style that appeared inhuman.

Harry found it very difficult to focus on the path of Merrythought's wand hand during each demonstration, likewise for Flitwick's footsteps. The former was clearly the more aggressive contender; though her movements were very conservative in comparison to the Charms Master, Merrythought's firing rate was formidable, Harry thought. In their 'warm-up' round, in fact, the witch produced five separate pulses of light from a swift upward arc of her wand, two of which forced Flitwick to duck and roll along the platform - a comical sight for the audience, to say the least.

Duelling was presented as a very nuanced topic given his reading _A History of the Duel in Europe, _which explored three major events: the duelling sport, followed by millions of magicals the world over; the "duel to satisfaction", a mostly antiquated affair which sought to restore one's honour; and close-combat warfare.

Sports duels in themselves were classified by several sets of rules, which included the number of wands one competitor could carry, set spells versus a free repertoire, and even the use of wands at all: as the vast majority of wizards couldn't use them effectively, enchanted sabres and staves were often used as substitutes in the lower-ranked tournaments. This was hardly the concern of the Professors, however, who showcased their wandwork with humbling accuracy.

"Tee-hee! Vinco!" Flitwick cried as he reached out with his off-hand to grasp the airborne wand of a despondent Merrythought, claiming his third victory in a row. His celebration would be shortlived, though; just before the wand graced his fingertips, Merrythought sent a violent three-fingered flick in his direction.

Flitwick doubled over, falling several yards backwards and collapsed in a heap. Merrythought took three great, slow strides along the star-patterned platform to reclaim her companion, thereby ending the duel in a grand total of thirteen seconds.

"Vinco."

"A hand, Galatea?" Flitwick heaved as he attempted to sit up. The audience cheered wildly as Merrythought gently helped the tiny wizard onto his feet.

"A pleasure as always, Filius," the tall witch said with a wry smile, bowing as she turned towards the spectators.

"Confidence is a virtue," Toothill said over the applause, "but you mustn't forget to temper it. Even seasoned Champions like our dear Professor Flitwick need to be reminded of that!"

* * *

"Did you see her, Harry?" Neville asked him for what must have been the thousandth time as the pair rushed towards the Sorcery Wing. "Just a flick! Flitwick - went down in a flick! Ha!"

"Yes Neville," Harry said, sighing in exasperation, "I _was_ there too. You know it loses its sting each time you say that?"

In truth, Harry was hooked since yesterday's exhibition; spellfire, sidesteps and all, and was itching to participate in the next available session. He and Neville both jumped at the chance to sign up (as had Draco, which was slightly annoying but only a minor disappointment in comparison), and even struck up a rivalry of sorts: whoever lost the most duels between them by the end of the year would owe the victor ten Galleons. Harry had no intentions of losing. He would become a competent duellist, like several Potters before him.

He'd probably have to find out who the Potters actually were, though.

In any case, Sorcery was a class that Harry had been looking forward to more than any other. Remarkably, he and Neville had beaten the instructor to the lecture hall even though they were five minutes late.

"Where _have_ you two been?" Hermione demanded in hushed tones as they took their seats.

"Why are you whispering?" Neville countered, struggling to pull out the exceptionally large _Five Hundred Exercises _textbook from his satchel.

"I asked first."

"Where is the Sorcery teacher, by the way?"

"Are you going to answer - oh." Hermione's faint scowl swiftly turned into the picture of glee. "You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?" Harry said, his interest piqued.

"Oh, just wait," Hermione answered with a Cheshire grin. "You would've known had you read _Hogwarts: A History._"

"It's not even that big of a deal,' Ron groused to her left, 'it's just that S- "

"_Ron!_"

"I believe apologies to all of you are in order," a soft voice echoed from the far end of the hall.

As he looked down, Harry's heart skipped a beat. He heard Neville and several others near him suck in a sharp breath when they recognised the same thing.

There, in all his magical glory, stood the illustrious Sir-Professor-Headmaster Dumbledore in his telltale velvet purple robes. Harry knew little about the man, but expected an eventful lesson if he correctly predicted what would happen next.

"Sir," a girl near the front of the hall asked in a timid voice, "sorry to be rude, but..."

"Not at all, Miss Davis," the Headmaster replied warmly. "The floor is always open to student input. You have a question for me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, louder this time, "it's just that you're the Headmaster. Are you _supposed_ to teach classes?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I am fairly sure that many of you are as unaware as Miss Davis here," he said, flexing his fingers over the stone in front of him, "that it is customary at Hogwarts for a Headmaster to hold lectures in his or her own specialty to first-year pupils, while giving more direct tuition to those of the Upper School. Though I would much rather teach classes in ten-pin bowling, alas, I find myself here."

The class - all forty of them - laughed heartily in response. Harry thought it was a pretty bad joke if one could call it that, but he found himself drawn in by the man's charisma nonetheless.

"I confess myself relieved that my revelation has not caused offence,' he said with a chuckle. "So, shall we proceed?"

That such an engaging teacher had ever been relegated to the distant post of Head was lost on Harry, and the rest of the year group seemed to agree. Dumbledore was the absolute centre of attention; there were no disruptions in the form of chatter, or parchment airplanes, or even explosions from Seamus' end of the hall. No one even dared raise a hand to ask the Master Sorcerer about the deepest and greatest secrets of spellcraft.

"As you will have learned in your first Cardinals lesson," the Headmaster said as he drew his chalk across the board, "the fundamentals of magic can be most easily expressed by the six Simple Forms: The Point, Line, Curve, Square, Circle, Triangle. Remember, Forms are seldom unpaired, and that their names are simply convenient placeholders, not descriptions. Should one happen to be lucky enough as to see a Form with the naked eye - if that is even possible - please send an owl to my office post haste, and tell _no one else."_ The class laughed as a chorus. "Finally, we have a seventh Form, believed to be unique to any given species. For wizards, that would be what... Mr Weasley?"

"Word, Professor!" Ron answered immediately. It was the most enthusiastic thing Harry had heard from him that week.

"Very good, Mr Weasley! A point to Gryffindor, I would think," the Headmaster said cheerfully. Harry heard a grumble near the middle of the hall which sounded distinctly like the voice of one Draco Malfoy.

"We encounter several base rules when reading Cardinals," he carried on, drawing a few symbols that Harry thankfully recognised, "which of course vary from school of thought to school of thought. We here at Hogwarts usually mentor our apprentices in the Hermetic tradition, the staple framework which is responsible for much of European wizardry, though there are myriad roads to Atlantis, one could say. For now, let us explore the five symbols I have drawn to the best of my abilty. Hm - Miss Patil?"

"They're the five Greek classical elements, Headmaster," a girl who looked (and sounded) just like Parvati in Ravenclaw trim said to Harry's far right. "Earth, water, air, fire and... aether?"

"Right in one, Miss Patil! Or five, I suppose. So five points to Ravenclaw, surely! Yes, most applications of a wizard's magic, especially Sorcery, depend on the interpretation of these classical elements... as it were. Whatever one's fancy, these symbols can represent any one of a wide range of concepts, from phases of matter to the conditions of a spell's duration. The 'element' on its own can and will do nothing, of course. So where does it _fit, _exactly, within the formula of a spell?"

All thoughts of Professor Veness' exposition from earlier in the week drifted far away from Harry's mind. _This _was true magic, he believed, so much so that the inexplicable feeling he experienced in the Alley and the Castle entrance threatened to surface again. It appeared that the great Sir Albus - _his_ would-be guardian - was just that powerful.

"An accomplished witch may Conjure a flame, though one could also start a fire with basic charmwork. Such is also true for a stream of water, or a light breeze, in fact- "

The Castle bell decided to ring just then, accompanied by the dissatisfied groans of the whole class.

"It is refreshing to be in the company of such eager pupils as yourselves," Dumbledore said with a belly laugh, "but we must part ways here, I am afraid. I would ask all of you: please read the first two chapters of Professor Trimble's _Five Hundred Exercises _by the end of the month, as we shall soon delve into a practical demonstration concerning the purposes of various magical foci. Enjoy your practicals after lunch, and I would hope to find you just as enthusiastic in a fortnight!"

"Fortnight?" Ron's mumble sounded almost mournful.

"Two-week schedule, Ron?" Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Do you even follow your Almanac?"

"My what?"

Even the threat of yet another titanic bickering match between the two de-facto siblings couldn't break Harry's focus as he rushed between the Sorcery Wing and the Great Hall during lunch. The other half of their spell-dedicated day was hosted by Miss Pleasant, a bubbly brown-haired witch who promised to teach them not one, but _two _spells that day.

"We'll be starting off small," she said, trekking across the classroom as she fingered her wand, "just a couple of simple Charms today. We'll be working on them for the next couple of weeks, so don't be discouraged if you don't get it right away. You can't make a Founder in an hour, after all! Now, the Wand-Lighting Charm is a time-tested beginner's spell, so we'll start with that... "

_"This is it," _Harry thought to himself as he handled his holly wand, regarding it with hopeful anticipation tinged with a hint of fear.

He found the wand to be welcoming in its warmth at that moment, and was reminded of Ollivander's words - "_It is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter," - _but what if the wand had made a mistake?

"_Lumos... _darn it," Hermione griped next to him, "it's very frustrating, isn't it? But I'm sure I've got the motion down - what's wrong, Harry?"

_"There's _nothing_ wrong, you're just being an idiot." _

He looked down at his hand. Did his wand just _talk?_

Shaking his head furiously, Harry made his best attempt to discard all extraneous thoughts, and reflected on the guidance notes from Trimble's supplementary _Imaging Exercises for the Aspiring Sorcerer_:

_A sorceress' success stems from the ability to visualise her goals. The Word is enough, but woefully flat on its lonesome. The Motion will shape and feed the Word to some extent, but for an optimal connection between one's own magic and the desired target one must reflect on the Icon of a spell, one of which may take thousands of forms. It is up to the individual wizard or witch to decipher their own puzzle in respects to spell formulae, possibly the most important obstacle one must overcome to discover that Icon. This is yet another Ring of Three, serving as your holy trinity of Sorcery: absorb it, and beyond all, _command _it!_

Referring back to his previous success with the Helix Mold, Harry wielded his wand with purpose, focusing on the rhythm invoked by the incantation and wand movement in tandem. He painted a ball of lime-green light in his head, bouncing to the non-existent music to forge his own Icon, and soon enough, the wizlets were back. They felt _hot _this time around, at least he thought, and he imagined them glowing green in one-and-a-half turns... he was ready.

_"Lumos."_

As soon as the word broke from his lips, a dazzling sliver of that same lime-green light bled from his wand and squirmed every which way, eventually condensing into a thick, radiant bead that rested on the tip as he slowed its path.

Hermione's mouth was agape.

"Miss Pleasant!" she squealed, her eyes alight with something Harry couldn't put his finger on. "Harry got it!"

Probably more due to panic over the volume of Hermione's outburst rather than its content, the Sorcery teacher rushed over to assess the situation. Upon her arrival, Pleasant mimicked a perfect mirror of Hermione's expression.

"Mr _Potter," _she said breathlessly, "that is a _very _strong first try... is it your first try?"

"Yes, Miss!" Harry replied readily, not even bothering to contain his pride.

"Magnificent! Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr Potter! Now why don't you tell the class how... "

* * *

And so, after the shortest mourning period following his performance in Theurgy, Harry's spirits were lifted once more. He was good - no, the best in the class - at Sorcery. Even Hermione was asking him for help in the subject which, even though only a week had passed, felt like an entirely foreign concept. In hindsight, Dumbledore's lecture and Trimble's books made almost instinctual sense to him, as if their words had unlocked a portion of his brain that had lain dormant for all this time. Now, more than any other time in the past month, Harry felt assured in his existence as a wizard.  


_A wizard, _he thought again to himself. What would the others think if they knew? Phil and Greg?

_Alice?_

He started to feel guilty again. Was he forgetting Oakwood already?

Harry tried to think about something less guilt-ridden as he took a stairway leading to the Slytherin block of the Castle for his next class. Potioneering, taught by Professor Snape, was the final subject of the week. None of the first-years knew much about him, other than the fact that he was a former Slytherin which, according to Draco, made him the messiah of potionmaking.

"You probably thought Dumbledore was a treat, Potter," he said as he snaked an arm around Harry's shoulders outside the Dungeons, "but just you wait. I hear Professor Snape apprenticed under old Slughorn himself!"

Harry had to admit that the Slytherin Head of House was an interesting fellow, so perhaps there was hope for Snape in that regard. Breaking away from Draco as soon as he could, Harry set his cauldron down next to a dangerously pallid Neville.

"Hey Nev, what's up?"

"Eh?" the round-faced boy croaked as he looked up at Harry. "Ah, nothing. Just a little nervous is all."

Harry waved a hand in dismissal. "There's nothing to worry about, you know. None of us have even attempted a potion."

"_I_ have," Neville muttered, forlorn.

"Wands away, cauldrons out," Harry heard a deep voice snarl from outside the dungeon.

As the tall, greasy-haired wizard from the first-year Orientation sauntered past the doorway, a sharp current of blisteringly cold wind pierced through the space of the dungeon. He admired the collection of occult ingredients on above the central chalkboard, inhaling deeply with his back facing the first-years.

He snapped his fingers. A fragment of chalk sprung to life from its resting place on the Professor's desk, screeching as it marked its territory over the grubby bottle-green surface of the chalkboard. The Professor sidestepped to the right, whirling back round on the students as he pointed to the chalk's message.

Following a few awkward moments of stunned silence, he gestured again expectantly, his face betraying slight agitation.

"Good morning, Professor Snape," the first-years chorused as best they could.

The Professor's features softened a little. "Silver Ingot-certified alchemist, member of the Toxic Substances Advisory Board to the ICW and Deputy Master in the most integral discipline of your entire Hogwarts career. Welcome, Gryffindors and Slytherins, to Potioneering," he said, bowing stiffly and pacing towards the high-backed chair behind his desk.

"An ice breaker would be appropriate," he pondered, taking his seat. No one expected the rapidly drawn finger aiming towards the back of the dungeon next.

"_You!_" he barked at Seamus, who whimpered from his place behind Neville. "Name! Give me an occupation and location. What does Potioneering mean to you?"

"Er, F-finnigan, sir," Seamus replied with a blend of haste and fear. "I'm a s-student... in your dungeon?"

Snape stared at him, eyes half-lidded, and grunted in disapproval.

"Two points from Gryffindor. You! Next!"

"Granger, sir," Hermione, who sat at the front (as usual) answered far more boldly than her fellow Gryffindor, "I'm... a merchant in Marrakech!"

Snape hummed thoughtfully. "And what does Potioneering _mean_ to Miss Granger?"

"It's my bread and butter, sir," she responded, not missing a beat.

"Very good," the Professor almost purred, baring yellowish fangs as his mouth contorted into a fairly grotesque impression of a smile. "You have redeemed your House. Three points to Gryffindor."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Were he not absolutely terrified of the Professor, Harry might have laughed.

The next few minutes were spent signing the class register. Snape stopped for a brief moment as Harry announced his presence, staring at him as if he were some rare specimen, though quickly resumed as if nothing had occurred.

"Ours is a discipline of change," Snape said silkily, "of revolution. Potioneering - or Potions to the purists - is often dismissed as a wizard's last resort: it is anything but. A rudimentary education in mixing common garden ingredients, let alone brewing could spare you from Death's inevitable embrace, whether He lurks one minute or one millennium away. Reckless experimentation might result in just the opposite - whatever your take on the Eastern Wastes may be. The world of witches was built on the back of the tinctures, powders and elixirs of... Muggle..." he paused for a while, beady black eyes peering over the green-trimmed wave of robes before him, "... antiquity. To master brewing is to claim power over nature. What one does with it? That is of no consequence, because at this present moment, you know _nothing._

"We will start with a household favourite, mixing the Pepper Up Potion in pairs. Turn to page eleven of _Magical Drafts and Potions_ \- instructions will be available on the board shortly. I expect you to form an orderly line to my ingredient stores in single file. You will enter _one _at a time.

"Begin."

And they did. Or Harry did, at least. Neville was frozen in place, his knuckles pale from gripping his as-of-yet unopened textbook. Harry felt a twinge of annoyance at the blond wizard's apprehension, but quashed it as he remembered how encouraging Neville was after his own disappointing experience in Theurgy.

"It's alright Neville, you have me after all," he said with a wry smile, patting the other boy's back. "How about you collect the extra ingredients while I set up here?"

Neville took a deep breath. "Whatever you say, Master Sorcerer," he mumbled, rolling his eyes as he got up.

Harry chuckled to himself as the round-faced Gryffindor skimmed his textbook and skulked towards the stores. Admittedly, his success in Sorcery had rewarded him with a significant confidence boost, but Neville performed better than most in that practical, too. Surely he couldn't think that one or two poor results at home would inform how well he did under qualified supervision?

Clabbert dissections aside, this wasn't the same bold, happy-go-lucky Neville that Harry had come to know over the past couple of weeks, and that somewhat troubled him. The bubbling of his cauldron, half-filled with water brought Harry back to his senses, however. Now was not the time to pick Neville Longbottom's brain. Reading through the next line of instructions, Harry brought the fire down to a quarter of its previous temperature, and set to pestling his own stock of dried dandelion petals into powder.

He was in full swing, slicing an eighth of a frozen Ashwinder egg into fine segments by the time Neville had returned with the bicorn horn and Mandrake root. Harry had never been inside a chemistry lab, nor did Miss Meacham dare to allow any of the children inside the kitchen, but he believed he was competent enough to closely follow instructions. Moreover, Potioneering seemed to have an inexplicably familiar quality to it, similar to the rhythm he found when casting spells.

"Wow, look at you, Harry!" Neville said, beaming.

The praise didn't go unnoticed. He'd always been good at school, but Harry simply couldn't get enough of magic, and being told that he was good at it too did wonders for his pride. In hindsight, he didn't even need Neville's assurance: the colour of their mixture was perfect for the stage they had reached.

All that was left was to stir the contents four turns counterclockwise, and leave to simmer for eight-and-a-half minutes...

_Whoops._

Harry, in all his euphoria inadvertently added an extra half-turn to his stirs. Neville hadn't noticed, at least he hadn't said anything as he watched over, occasionally writing up notes for each stage of the mixture. For the next ten minutes, Harry's eyes were glued to the contents of the cauldron, watching intently to see if the colour resembled anything close to the intended final product. Surprisingly, by the time Snape had called all mixing to a halt, their potion had remained the same vibrant red colour described by the textbook.

"What is this?" Snape muttered to Parkinson and a Gryffindor boy Harry knew as Randall Ogden. Greenish-grey plumes of smoke rose from their cauldron - Harry couldn't tell if the dark haired girl's angry-looking tears were a result of their failure, or the putrid smell.

"Our Pepper Up Potion, sir," said Randall timidly, not looking at the Professor as he fiddled with his ladle.

Snape hummed, took out a piece of parchment and scribbled what unquestionably looked like a large 'zero', passing it to the pair as he left a sniffling Parkinson in his wake.

He was no doubt critical in each of his visits, but bar Randall and Parkinson, Snape spent valuable time (in monotone) explaining exactly where each potion fell short. He even gave praise to Hermione and Ron (mostly Hermione, of course) for their own admirable effort, though Harry could see the colour was quite a bit paler than Neville's and his own.

When Snape had finally approached their cauldron, his jaw spasmed.

"This," he said softly after a few moments, scooping a spoonful into an empty phial, "is a Potion. Potter! You led the mixing?"

"Y-yes, Professor."

"Good, good," Snape intoned, nodding slowly at the phial as he held it up to the dim light. "A perfect concoction. We'll make a brewer out of you yet, Potter."

Harry felt his heart swell with pride once more.

"Longbottom," the Professor said curtly, "if you would sample the Potion, please?"

"Of course, sir!" Neville replied, snatching the phial from an amused Snape with his signature enthusiasm.

"Cheers," he said, winking back as Harry grinned at him.

Downing the contents of the phial, Neville coughed and spluttered as steam billowed out of his ears. The class all laughed and cheered, and Neville soon joined them.

"A worthy demonstration to conclude our first lesson," Snape said, turning back to Harry, "and commendation is due to Mr Potter, of course. Five points to Gryffin- "

"_Squock!" _Neville coughed.

"Longbottom?"

Neville's coughing fit had resumed, but this time his face was as red as a tomato, and was sweating profusely. Snape rushed through the tables, diving through the ingredient stores and emerging shortly after with a large black bottle.

"Here - drink boy, _drink!" _he urged, forcing the contents of the bottle down Neville's throat. A few seconds passed, and Neville went limp and pale in his seat.

"Finnigan! Get him to the Infirmary. Pupils are dismissed," Snape spat, stalking over to his desk.

Seamus scurried over to Neville's prone form, hauled him out of his seat and made for the dungeon's exit. Every other student rushed out of the dungeon as fast as could be, likely to see if Neville would survive the night. Harry quickly followed suit, his ears pounding. Had he just _killed _Neville?

He wouldn't find out any time soon as his feet froze in their tracks.

"Potter," he heard Snape's voice boom behind him, "you stay here."

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's** **note: **So I had to split the last one and this into two. It would have been even more of a nightmare otherwise. Hermione's head will show up again at later points, as will some those of a couple other characters, but this is a Harry-centric story, first and foremost. Many thanks for reading - review, crit and/or PM to your fancy. Even if you just want to talk, lol.


	9. Susan Takes A Shot

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Dumbledore gets the four-one-one, Harry gets invited, and an old nemesis returns for dinner.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Nine - Susan Takes A Shot  
**

_"Please, Sir Albus,"_ he remembered a marginally less toxic Rita Skeeter beckon to him many years ago. _"You must have one, or even a handful that you have a more-than-healthy regard for. _

_"So tell me, who was your favourite student?"  
_

Given his prestige in the wizarding world - especially in his tutelage of several rising (and some fallen) stars - Albus Dumbledore was more than accustomed to being asked that particular question. The Headmaster of Hogwarts generally balked at the concept; a teacher should not pick pupils, he believed, and what moral lesson could one possibly teach by paying undivided attention to one or two above all others? Not only did he think such an act should call any self-proclaimed educator's aptitude into close scrutiny, but he found the concept itself distinctly unsavoury. When class was in session, Albus did not and never would pick favourites.

The outside world, however, was an entirely different playing field.

As he regarded the young man in front of him, Albus considered that he had few friends, no less students, with whom he could confess a closer relationship than one Severus Tobias Snape. His favour of the 'openly' Dark wizard was far from private (which disgusted more than a few within his own circle, no doubt), but his former student knew the character of the revered Herald of Merlin almost as intimately (and certainly more objectively than) himself.

He had always looked forward to meeting with the young Potioneering teacher for this very reason, even during those murky years when Grindelwald's wand loomed just over the Channel, and Severus was but a misunderstood pupil himself, teetering on the cusp of greatness and oblivion as he awaited judgement in the Headmaster's office.

_Thank the Wild_, he maintained, _for a Head of House in Horace._

For it was here that Severus sat, in Professor Slughorn's position less than three decades previously, delivering the same standard pupils' report in a very similarly Conjured leather armchair. _Remade in his own image... _Albus mused, before thinking somewhat better of it.

_More or less._

"So that concludes third year," the dark-haired wizard before him murmured, tracing down a long, coffee-stained scroll as he shuffled it downwards.

"Promising, then?"

Severus hummed in affirmation. "Most definitely," he said, looking up from the scroll. "Do take note of my recommendation for Morecambe, Headmaster. I want to have her ready for the N.E.W.T by her sixth year, at the latest."

"Ambitious," Albus replied, smiling in amusement, "I would assume that your high hopes for the girl are unrelated to your wager with Horace?"

Severus retreated back to his notes, making a strange sound that blurred the line between a grunt and a sniff.

"I shan't pry, then," Albus said with a titter. "And what of your first year class?"

"What of them?" Severus muttered as he began to seal the lengthy roll of parchment.

"It _has_ been over a month, Severus."

The potioneer frowned in thought for a moment. "That it has," he said, pensive, placing his scroll down before him. "There isn't much to report, either way. They are progressing as expected."

"Encouraging to be sure," Albus said as he rapped his fingers on the desk. "I often forget that no news from you is usually good news indeed."

Severus grunted a second time, less stifled than his last. A pointed silence hung in the air until Dumbledore spoke again.

"How is young Mr Longbottom faring? His grandmother is relentless in her concern for the poor boy, naturally."

Severus' eyes darted to the side. "No more near death than he was upon setting foot in this death-trap of a Castle, rest assured."

Albus peered down his glasses at the younger wizard.

"As you were informed," Severus added, "over a month ago."

"And Harry?" Albus pressed on.

Severus looked the Headmaster in the eye, smirking. "I'll assume you are referring to _Mr _Potter?"

Albus stared at him, puzzled. As it dawned on the old wizard, he nodded and smiled in acknowledgment.

"You may," he said with a short chuckle, "forgive me."

Severus stared back for a short while. "Well," he began, "he should undoubtedly receive an Outstanding grade for his impression of a brooding lion, if not a W.A.D.A invitation."

"Severus..."

"He will heal, Headmaster," he drawled, eyelids drawn, "this is how a brewer must learn humility. Potter was unlucky - his concoction should have been luminescent. The textbook warning sign in such a case, as you know."

Albus remained silent.

"He is capable," Severus said through his teeth as he adjusted his robes. "Why you need such reassurance is beyond me."

"He is my ward, Severus," Albus replied simply. "Though arguably unprofessional, I would hope that you might understand my personal interest in the matter. But you know that is not what I asked of you."

Severus flared his nostrils. "I am a teacher, not a counsellor," he said tartly, "and I certainly do not function as a bottomless cauldron of validation for the benefit of self-absorbed juveniles! Unless you wish to expand my position, Headmaster? Shall I organise a crèche for the Dungeons?"

Albus raised an eyebrow in surprise. Outbursts of this calibre rarely came from the young teacher.

"No need for such dramatics, man," he said. "I simply worry for the boy's emotional well-being. Yes, he is talented: his tutors, the both of us included can attest to that. But what good is Harry's mind if he cannot forgive himself for - pun not intended - simple schoolboy errors?"

Severus snorted, muttering something unintelligible to the Headmaster's ears.

"Surely you of all people can empathise, Severus?"

Half a minute would pass before the potioneer answered him.

"I find myself wondering, Headmaster," he said, "just how many times you have personally met with the young Master Potter."

Albus made to open his mouth before Severus added smugly, "One-to-one, Albus. Not that it is any of my concern, although..."

The Headmaster considered his gibe. It was true; since Harry's return to the Union two months ago, their contact had been minimal, and painfully next to nonexistent, if he were brutally honest. He'd been most busy, with no rest between the summer and start of term, and the Ministry granted him deferral for his visit with Harry for that very reason.

It was a very weak excuse, however, and Albus reasoned that grilling the staff for information was likely not the most appropriate course of action.

"You are right, Severus," he admitted with a wan smile, "then again, I cannot recall a time when you have steered me wrong."

Severus rolled his eyes as he rose, Vanishing the armchair with a lazy flick of his wand.

"I shall make arrangements to meet with Harry personally this week," Albus continued, "his welfare is a top priority, and though I am woefully behind schedule I must endeavour to make up for lost time with him. Thank you for your reports, as always."

"My pleasure, Headmaster," Severus said curtly as he made a beeline for the staircase. He hesitated, however, just before he opened the door.

"You've forgotten something?" Albus asked mirthfully, his eyes flitting downward at the coffee-stained scroll on his desk.

Severus nodded tightly, glancing at Dumbledore over his shoulder as he spoke.

"Yes. Lucius sends his regards."

Albus felt his jaw twitch. "I am sure that he does. Is he well?"

Severus' expression turned grave as he turned to face the Headmaster fully. "He invited the Minister for tea over the weekend. Smith and Madam Chang also attended, I'm led to believe."

"_Governors?_" Albus mouthed, tracing his moustache with a thumb. "I suppose a Board letter is on its way, then. Narcissa's friends, too?"

Severus inclined his head once more, eyes strained.

"Look alive, Albus," he said tiredly, slinking past the door.

* * *

The month of October had made its presence known. The harsh Highland winds carried with them a deluge of browning willow leaves, the sandstone pathways of the Castle grounds being long hidden in the aftermath. Union League Quidditch (for those who followed it) was in full swing, and the usually low-key Ron had even taken to donning a lurid combination of both the Hogwarts and Chudley Cannons-coloured scarves, much to everyone's amusement: Harry's even more so.

Though some might have called him spiteful for it, Harry welcomed having the spotlight taken away from him with open arms, given the mixed reception of his exploits during the very first week of classes. The summer _Daily Prophet _article that leaked his Augo Profile refused to die a natural death, and pupils from all years and Houses wasted no time in conflating it with recent events.

He felt guilty about the Pepper Up Potion fiasco, and crushingly so. Neville, to his credit pretty much shrugged it off upon his return to Gryffindor Tower near the end of the weekend, and the rest of his dorm mates found it all hilarious. While he was eternally grateful for their blasé attitudes towards the matter, Harry's conscience, or more importantly his ego had sustained a heavy blow. A rightful one at that, if he was honest with himself. He still gave of his best in classes and in the Duelling Club - which was a riot - but concentrated obsessively on each task and kept his successes to himself (or Hermione, who had grown to love picking apart his sigil mappings in Artificing). Not that it saved him from the watchful eyes of the rest of the school, by any means.

Pupils hailing him as 'child Master' and 'the next Dumbledore' were opposed by those who referred to him by the equally embarrassing monikers of 'Dark apprentice' and 'traitor to the Union', neither side claiming a clear majority approval. For the most part, the Gryffindors were very supportive of Harry, but he owed that completely to Neville, who claimed that his nose was the clearest that it had ever been upon waking up in the Hospital Wing. Harry really counted his blessings there - they were still Potioneering partners after the humbling incident.

In contrast, the Hufflepuffs generally gave him a wide berth when they crossed paths, only to make snide comments or call him names as he turned a corner. Even some of their Prefects had joined in, taking away House points for the most trivial of offences. He'd read the Almanac back to front, and couldn't remember coming across a rule that said anything about walking on the 'wrong' side of a corridor.

It was infuriating, to say the least. Harry wished he could say that he had more important things to focus on, but how was he supposed to ignore the abuse? The elder Hufflepuff who whispered 'long live Grindelwald!' while slapping the back of his head after the assembly announcing an upcoming Memorial Day was the most recent incident, and he wasn't interested in idly waiting for the next.

A fair portion of Ravenclaw was just as bad, but the rest kept to themselves, which seemed typical of their House anyway. The notable exception to the rule was found in first-year Kevin Entwhistle, who made a very poor attempt at subtly copying his work during an end-of-month Cardinals quiz.

More than a handful of the Slytherin cohort were disturbingly interested in his movements, though. Both Neville and himself continued to receive occasional invitations to eat at the Slytherin table, all of which he had (as politely as possible) declined to date.

Inter-House dining wasn't uncommon in the Great Hall as far as he could tell, but it was more the domain of elder students who understandably knew each other better. However, Neville and Draco _did _know each other quite well, and the blond Gryffindor had begun pestering Harry to join him in his treasonous journeys to the far west of the Hall.

"So what's wrong with our table, exactly?" Harry asked of Neville's most recent proposal, as the duo slid down the staircase to the first floor Studios for another Duelling Club session.

"Obviously nothing," Neville said defensively, "but don't you ever get bored? The Slytherins are a good lot, not to mention they don't gas on about Quidditch all the time."

He was obliged to agree. Ron's limited quota of words in-between gorging himself (or at any time at all, for that matter) was mostly dedicated to moaning about Union League fixtures. Harry, for one, had enough of entertaining poor excuses for the Cannons' sub-par performance.

"I guess," Harry pondered, inclining his head as they turned the corner to the first floor corridor, "and Malfoy does seem to know his stuff about the Circuit, so..."

"Draco can say all he wants," said Neville, sniggering. "He's still got a limp hand and two left feet."

Harry laughed as they entered the chock-full Studios changing room, squeezing through the forest of pupils to hang his outer robe on one of the iron pegs near the entrance.

"So does that mean you're coming?" Neville asked.

"Well- "

Harry was cut off by a deafening whistle from just a few yards away.

"Eyes front, everyone," the reedy voice of Toothill called above the dying racket. "We'll be doing something different today. Juniors are showing promise, so Coach Merrythought wants to do a bit of sparring with you. Have fun, just not too much!"

"Wicked! D'you hear that, Harry?" Neville shrieked over the resuming din.

This was a treat, Harry thought. So far, the Junior members (mostly first- and second-years as well as a couple of late enthusiasts) had strictly practiced shifting stances, non-magic footwork and a trio of basic spells which were informally known (when accompanied by the not-yet covered Disarming Charm) as the Squire's Square, due to their ease of casting and their conformity to comp regulations. That there was more focus on the Icon rather than formula for each one didn't hurt, either.

The Juniors marched over to the Green Studio, which was indeed decorated green, and dedicated to the novices. As expected, Merrythought first had them perform Choro Gladium I - a pattern of rudimentary combative maneuvers - on the flat mats in pairs. Given that he had practiced the sequence every other day for the past month on his own, Harry had gotten used to running through the drill on autopilot.

_Right wheel, thrust, about turn, backslash... if Phil and Greg ever catch wind that I'm taking a dance class and enjoying it..._

"Bloody hell, Harry," Neville moaned as he almost tripped, "mind slowing down a bit?"

Harry's head jerked forward. "Huh? Sorry," he said as he broke his pace.

After a good half-hour had passed, Merrythought called the group over to the circular platform in the centre of the room.

"Right," she said jovially, "now that we've all limbered up, we should be good to go with a bit of sparring. This is nothing like what you see in the demos, by the way - you can't move that fast without some spark in your legs - so take it easy. And if you get lost, just remember your Ps and Ds!"

Pound.

Duck.

Parry.

Dance.

Puzzle.

Drive.

Harry had all but ironed the commands into his brain over the past month, alternating the rotation as he practiced on a tree near the Lake in his free time. It probably wouldn't amount to much, but it was a sort of romantic experience for him, pretending to be a warlock sharpening his form in the woods of some long forgotten kingdom.

_A protector of the people, safeguarding the honour of my kinfolk..._ whom he felt obligated to learn more about at some point._  
_

"Okay then," Merrythought said with a clap that brought Harry back to Earth, "let's peep what you've learned so far. Any volunteers? Don't be shy, now!"

"I'll go!" a high, haughty voice eagerly called from the front of the crowd. Harry was sure that he recognised the tone, but couldn't put a face to it.

"All righty," said Merrythought, "and it's Smith, correct?"

A blond boy with a Hufflepuff cravat climbed the platform, slicking back his hair once he found his feet.

_Of course_, Harry realised. The voice belonged to the cocky boy who claimed Hufflepuff at the Sorting.

"Yes madam," he replied, puffing out his chest.

Merrythought hummed to herself. "Coach is fine," she said, looking instead at the crowd. "Do we have a challenger?"

A long moment of silence followed. Smith grinned.

"Come now," Merrythought teased, "you were all rearing to go a second ago!"

Suddenly, Harry felt something hard poke him in the side.

He let out an embarrassing squeak as his legs gave way, propelling him into a forward roll. Thankfully, the crowd in front of him dispersed to give him room to crash properly.

The downside was the ensuing round of laughter.

"Ah, Potter!" Merrythought said, beaming. "Why am I not surprised? Well, get yourself up here- "

"No!" shouted Smith. Merrythought's head spun round faster than a champagne cork.

"_Excuse_ me?"

"I'm not duelling a Dark wizard," he spat, unfazed by the lanky teacher's warning, "there's no honour in it!"

Merrythought scoffed. "Stop being silly, boy," she muttered, calling Harry over with a hand wave. "Come on Potter, get up here- "

"But look at him! He's cack-handed!" Smith argued with wide eyes and a purpling face as he pointed at his Harry's wand, which was indeed in his left hand as Ollivander had advised months ago. If he didn't know better, he'd think Smith was simply chickening out.

"Enough of this nonsense," Merrythought growled at him, "get off of my platform. Does anyone _else _want to challenge Potter?"

A whoop erupted from somewhere within the rabble of students. It was now Harry's turn to grin.

_Nice one._

"I thought you'd never ask, Coach," he heard Neville say, pushing his way through the crowd to vault himself onto the circle.

Around a half of the crowd cheered, and with a sinking feeling, Harry was reminded that a sizable portion of the student body thought he was an attempted murderer.

_Bollocks._

"Longbottom, eh?" Merrythought said raising an eyebrow. "Blimey, as if I'm thirty all over again..."

Neville trotted up to Harry, pumping his non-wand hand thrice.

"You're going to make me a rich man," he said with a smirk.

Harry made a face. "Richer, you mean?"

Neville sniggered, cuffing Harry's shoulder. "Whatever," he said, "let's get this over with. First of many, right?"

Harry smiled in return.

"Why not?"

Merrythought had them get into starting position on the marked 'x's provided on the platform surface before explaining the rules.

"This is a quick spar," she hollered for the benefit of the audience, "one bout only. Three hits or one knockdown calls a win. Only the three Ps are allowed, _nothing else. _Clear?"

Harry and Neville nodded in tandem, not taking their eyes off of each other.

_Christ, Neville's serious._

"On my mark... salute!"

They did just that, turning away and pacing back to their respective edges.

_Five... six... seven... _

"FIRE!"

"_Pulto!" _he heard Neville shout as he spun on his heels.

_Dance, _he thought to himself, skidding right to avoid the blurry cork-shaped wave aimed at his midsection. The Pounding Hex hurt more than it should have for such an apparently rudimentary spell, Harry believed, and he wasn't interested in feeling it right then.

_Aggressive..._

Neville was right-handed, he knew, and after casting the Pounding Hex on him several times previously, Harry believed he had discovered a glaring hole in his friend's defences.

_Duck, dance, pound,_ he thought, snapping his wand all the while to spook the round-faced Gryffindor into dodging back and forth.

_"Pulto," _Harry grunted, using the second or so he had gained feinting to extend the pull before jabbing his wand.

_Enlarging the surface area... should take him out._

Harry's own cork-shaped wave, quite a bit taller than his opponent's, sailed right towards Neville's left side, eliciting a loud pop on contact.

_That'll show _him_ cack-handed... sorry Neville.  
_

Cheers and boos abound, Neville's torso jerked backwards as he stumbled back a couple of steps, though it wasn't enough. The young Longbottom soon regained his footing, driving forward and crouching before he sent another Pounding Hex back at Harry.

_Duck, drive, pound. _

_"Pulto!" _Harry repeated, this time aiming at Neville's left foot. His opponent learned quickly however, as he bounced to his right, stepped forward and sent another Pounding Hex on its way. It was _fast, _and it was on course for a direct collision with Harry's skull.

_Parry-parry-parry-PARRY!_

_"Propulso," _Harry rasped as he hurriedly cast the Parrying Charm, swatting the Hex to his left. Staring the wave in the face sent chills through his bloodstream; his ears were pounding, and so was the scene in front of him.

_Am I _seeing_ my heartbeat?_

It was all very fun, but he had to finish this quickly. He could feel the eyes of the audience burning away at his skin, and he was certain that Smith wasn't alone in his sentiments. The shorter he had to play the villain, the better.

_"Pulto!" _Neville cried again, driving back into an easy stance at the close of his incantation.

_That's it, _Harry thought to himself, dipping clumsily as he felt the wave fly just past his hair.

Neville had a habit of driving the same three steps forward and back in-between his Hexes. A comfortable rhythm for him, no doubt, but easily exploited. Harry just needed Neville to Parry first so that he could prepare, which was simple enough.

_Drive, dance, drive._

Again, Neville fell for the feint and Parried, and Harry bided his time.

_Slippery snake, red herring... slippery snake, red herring..._

The blond wizard drew his wand back, the curse slipping past his lips.

_"Pul- "  
_

_"Perturbo," _Harry hissed, drawing a broad serpentine arc with his own holly wand. His Puzzling Jinx spirited a cloud of white sparks across the platform, engulfing his opponent's Hex as they surrounded him.

Harry rejoiced: it was a perfect spell!

The results were very amusing. Neville took one step forward, then two back, then three forward, then two to his right...

According to Harry's copy of _Curses and Counter-Curses, _the Puzzling Jinx was an infamous precursor of the Confundus Charm, and the signature spell of one Hadrian the Heinous, who performed the Jinx on scores of unsuspecting mountaineers during the late sixteenth century. Fooled by the echoes of their senses from the moment the Jinx was cast, they all fell to their deaths.

Neville was now a slave to his own routine: it was time to end this.

_"Pulto," _Harry barked, snapping his wrist over his offhand for additional force. The line-dancing Neville didn't stand a chance.

The blond Gryffindor took the Hex straight to the chest and was forced back several feet, landing unceremoniously on his behind.

Merrythought stalked over to Neville and murmured "_Finite," _with a flick of her wand. He came to immediately, a gormless look plastered on his face as the crowd applauded.

"We have a winner!" she said, looking at Harry as if she hadn't seen him in years. "Well done, Potter."

Harry bowed briefly, waved to his opponent and scurried over to the crowd. He was jostled and pinched by everyone who could get near him, but not before he caught a glimpse of Toothill winking at him from the doorway.

"Nice one, Harry!"

"That's our little Dark Lord!"

"Good show, Potter! Like father like son, eh?"

Neville would join him only seconds later, his face unreadable.

"So...' Harry started dumbly. Neville cuffed him on the shoulder again.

"That - that hurt, you know," Neville heaved.

Harry winced. "I'm sorr- "

"Please shut up," Neville said, "you won fair and square. Besides, at least you were _trying _to kill me this time."

The pair shared a laugh as they looked back up at the platform. In Harry's opinion, watching the duels that followed was almost as thrilling as being in the moment itself. He _loved _this sport.

Some were over very quickly, most notably Smith's, who managed to weasel his way back up to challenge the only fourth year of the Juniors, Simon Hornby. Predictably, the Intermediate Ravenclaw made short work of his insolent adversary with a well-placed Pounding Hex to the abdomen. It was satisfying to watch.

Other bouts were far less entertaining. Draco, for example, found a tricky opponent in Susan Bones, who Parried everything that came her way, including the occasional Puzzling Jinx. They were one of the better pairs, second years included, but the routine carried on for two agonising minutes until Susan took her first shot. Frantically sliding past the Hex, Draco stumbled over his own ankle, giving Susan precious time to follow up with another which literally swept Draco off of his feet.

"She should've done that from the get-go," Neville murmured to Harry as they applauded. "His footwork was always sloppy."

* * *

The Club session finished at three. As Harry went to retrieve his robe, he heard a familiar reedy voice call his name.

"Potter!" he turned around to meet Professor Toothill, whose lips curled upward as he frowned at her.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked.

"I- "

"Of course you do," she said happily. "Come along!"

He followed the sprightly old Professor through the changing rooms and into a cramped office in the corner. The walls and shelves were littered with scores of oddly shaped trophies and certificates, which Harry assumed must have been awarded to previous Castle champions.

Toothill sidled up to one shelf in particular, tapping the glass casing with a finger.

"Front and centre," she said, "do you recognise him?"

As he peered into the shelf, Harry discovered a faded picture of... himself. Taller though, and very happy about something - so much so that he was _dancing._

"April 1st, 1973," said Toothill wistfully, "the Barmy Baron was born. Your old man won his first comp - snatched up by Graham MacFusty in the same summer. All before his O.W.L year... precocious little bastard. Did the Headmaster tell you that he personally inducted your father as a Hephaestan when he came of age?"

"Er... no Professor," he said.

_I've never even spoken to him._

Toothill clicked her tongue in thought. "That's a shame," she said, glancing out at the window for a moment before levelling her eyes at Harry.

"So are you joining my Squad, then?"

Harry was flabbergasted. "Wha- "

"I want you to join my Squad," she reiterated, "with Bones and Hornby. Junior Divison, so you'll train with Merrythought."

"I- er- " he stammered, unsure if jumping into an agreement was a wise decision. People still thought he was evil: what if they interpreted this as his 'next step', slaughtering all potential competition before his rise to power? That's what that Hufflepuff Prefect - Jones, he thought - was saying about the incident with Neville, anyway, but Harry didn't know or care if he was joking.

It didn't matter anyway, because people believed him.

"Look Potter," she said firmly, "my younger wands are all grown up now and we're dealing with a shortage. I _was _watching, you know. Very nice reflexes for your age, and that last Pounder- "

"But I only started last month, Professor!"

"_Coach,_" she growled. Harry shuffled a little.

Toothill's brow wrinkled as she looked at him. "Harry," she said, "if you're ever going to join, the best time is now. We can have you ready for the Circuit in three years flat, just like your dad."

_But I don't even know my Dad._

"Have you ever heard of the Mythril Wand, Harry?"

"This is the first time, Professor."

Toothill's hazel eyes lit up as she looked past Harry. He followed her line of sight, but only found the door.

"It's only the most coveted prize in British Inter-School duelling history," she said, mostly to herself, "and its home was always right here, but it's eluded me for nine long years, now. I've got a bloody good Senior team this year, Potter, but I don't just want to win that trophy. It is _staying _here.

"Now you like this Club," she said, crossing her arms as she gazed at him, "oh yes. We all saw how wild you went when Longbottom nearly socked you. Your heart started racing, I know! That feeling never goes away - it comes back every time. So come on, Potter, yes or yes?"

He knew she was right; the Duelling Club was the most fun he'd had all month. Miss Pleasant hadn't moved past Hover and Levitation Charms for two weeks yet, and while he loved to read regardless, he was itching to use his wand.

_"As am I, you _lovable_ idiot," _a voice breathed from his waist.

_What?  
_

Harry took a deep breath and fixed his face.

"Thank you, Coach Toothill," he said softly as he gave the witch a florid bow. "I humbly accept your invitation."

Toothill cackled. "Smashing! So- "

The Professor's eyes darted back to the door. As Harry turned his head, a small piece of parchment whizzed past him and headed straight for Toothill, floating just under her nose.

The Duelling Coach hummed to herself. "Looks like the top man wants to meet with you, Potter."

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

Toothill nodded. "I suggest you get a move on," she said briskly, ushering him out of the office.

"You start on Friday evening, by the way!"

* * *

Harry could feel his head spinning as he scampered around in search of the Head's Tower, narrowly escaping what would have been a painful collision with his Head of House, Professor McGonagall, on one of the sixth floor corridors. Suffice to say, she was livid.

"Running in the _halls, _Mr Potter?" she said, incredulous. "On a weekday, no less? I'm inclined to dock- "

"Please, Professor," Harry whined, wringing his hands, "the Headmaster wants to see me. He's my guardian now and... it's the first time, and... "

McGonagall's face looked pained. "Oh certainly, your poor boy," she sighed, gently pushing him in the opposite direction. "You should have asked! It's right this way... "

Harry felt bad about hoodwinking the witch, but he hadn't lied. He really hadn't spoken to Dumbledore before, and had expected this meeting for almost a month. Besides, he was really proud of the House points he'd received for his independent Sorcery report on rendering the properties of limestone. To have them stolen from him would be highly unreasonable.

"Here we are, Mr Potter," said McGonagall somewhat uneasily as they approached a statue at the end of the seventh floor. "This is the Headmaster's Tower. Do you need anything else?"

Harry stared at the ugly statue. It stared back.

"Well," asked Harry, "how do I get through, Professor?"

McGonagall frowned. "He didn't give you the password?"

Harry shook his head. McGonagall groaned quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Classic Albus," she said under her breath, clearing her throat before muttering "Acid Pops_._"

"There we go," the statue groaned, stunning Harry. It sat up from its pedestal and walked over to the side, revealing the tail end of a spiral staircase.

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. "Is everything all right, Mr Potter?"

Clenching his jaw shut, Harry nodded and smiled at his Head of House.

"Yes Professor," he assured her as they made their way up the stairs.

In retrospect, Harry felt that he shouldn't have been surprised by what he saw next, given his impression of the Headmaster at that point. In practice, of course, that mattered little.

As he penned a letter on his high-backed, golden trimmed recliner, Sir Albus Dumbledore had never looked more at home to Harry. Silver instruments which puffed sweet-smelling smoke of all the colours of the rainbow sat on numerous spindly tables, while others whirred and buzzed as they flew just below the ceiling. A golden wire-frame globe, around the size of Harry's head, spun on a tilted axis as it travelled the circumference of the office. Scores of glass cabinets were packed to the brim with various decaying ornaments, presumably from faraway lands, and where there weren't portraits of wizards and witches who mostly looked around the Headmaster's age, shelves of thick and peeling books populated the walls. Even the planetary symbols on his carpet appeared to move of their own accord.

None of these sights, however, prepared Harry for the spectacle towards the western hemisphere of the room.

"Is that a _chicken?"_

The swan-sized 'chicken' in question was evidently most offended. It ruffled its red-and-gold feathers in contempt, squawked in Harry's direction and promptly erupted in flames, leaving nothing in its wake.

Harry was startled. He had just killed Dumbledore's pet chicken with an inadvertent insult... and all the old wizard could do was laugh.

Then again, he supposed the whole affair was actually quite funny.

"Oh my," the Headmaster said chuckling, "my... you have such a way with phoenixes, Mr Potter. Thank you, Professor!"

McGonagall stifled a snort, rolling her eyes as she turned back toward the staircase.

"Harry, please," Dumbledore beckoned to him with an outstretched hand, "take a seat."

Harry frowned as he slowly edged towards the Head's desk.

"I'm sorry sir," he said warily, "but I can't see one. Shall I sit on the floor?"

Dumbledore gawked at him for a second.

Then he chuckled again. "Forgive me," he said, looking abashed, "one becomes so used to having the Professors Conjure their preferred seats, especially over the summer holidays. I haven't played host to pupils here for almost a year now, you see."

And with that, the old wizard drew his own especially long and ornate wand, giving it an elegant twirl where Harry stood. Just then, Harry was swept off his feet and landed in a squishy crimson armchair. He dug his fingers into the leather as he sank into its depths, not quite believing his senses.

"Can't wait to learn that," he mumbled with a weak smile.

"In time, I'm sure," replied Dumbledore, returning Harry's smile with a sportive grin.

An awkward pause followed, awkward to Harry at least. He could feel his ears burning as the Headmaster regarded him, brilliant blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

_It's like he's Father Christmas, but in purple._

"So, Prof... Sir... Head... "

Dumbledore let out a dry laugh. Harry was grateful that his gibberish had successfully broken the silence.

"Not to worry, Harry," the old wizard said, "I do not officiate as a Herald within the walls of the Castle. Professor is fine."

Harry nodded slowly; the Headmaster then clapped his hands together. "Very good!" he said merrily. "Well then - are you enjoying your first term at Hogwarts, so far?"

"Definitely," Harry said earnestly, "there's just so much to learn, and the library's huge - I mean, where else would you find out that they have invisible toads in Borneo? Then there's the Duelling Club. I got a place on the Squad today- "

Dumbledore leaned forward. "You don't say?"

Harry smiled. "I know, it's unbelievable," he said, but his smile faded as soon as the words left his lips. Not everything went his way, when he really thought about it.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said, concern marring his countenance.

"There are a couple of problems," Harry eventually spoke with a sigh, "like Theurgy, for one. I'm not very good at that."

_And half the school thinks I'm raising a Basilisk.  
_

The Headmaster gave him a knowing smile.

"We cannot be spectacular at everything, you know," he drolled. "Miss Pleasant did inform me in respects to your out-of-class performance of the Wood-to-Cotton Transformation, by the way. I must confess to distancing myself from you during my lectures given our unusual situation, though I fear I might be doing you a disservice."

Harry gulped. Miss Pleasant knew that he was practicing ahead of class, somehow, and demanded a demonstration under the condition that it would be kept a secret.

_Why can't some people just keep their mouths shut?_

"I try my best, Professor," he said weakly.

"As for Professor Veness," he continued, "her reports indicate that you are working consistently at an Acceptable standard."

"Because I work my arse off- " Harry muttered without thinking before clasping his mouth.

Dumbledore laughed. "And that," he said, "is what counts, my dear boy. If you must know, I never did show much promise for the subject during my school days."

Harry shot a sceptical look at the man.

"Travelling does a wizard a world of good, Harry," Dumbledore said sagely, intertwining his fingers as he placed his elbows on the desk, "and speaking on the subject of travelling, Mr Hagrid tells me that you have taken quite a liking to frolicking across the grounds."

Harry felt his blood chill. "It's not true, Professor," he said quickly, "I- okay, well it is... but we only had the one cabbage. Well, Seamus- "

" -now now, Harry- "

"I'm sorry sir," said Harry meekly, bowing his head, "it's just that he hates me _so _much."

"There may be some bad blood there, yes," said Dumbledore with a faraway look, "though I would hazard a guess - and my guesses are notoriously accurate, I'll have you know - that it has more to do with the memory of your father, who I must say, you do resemble beyond mere appearance."

Harry's heart skipped a beat; this was his chance. "So you did know my parents, sir?"

"But of course," the old sorcerer said fondly. "After all, James and Lily demanded that you were placed in my care following your return. I was a tad more acquainted with your father, actually, due to our living only a stone's throw away from each other for several years."

Harry was silent. He had to trust his parents' judgement... even if he didn't remember them.

"I assume that you would like to hear more about them?" asked Dumbledore.

Harry was roused out of his stupor. "Yes, please!" he said, nodding eagerly.

Dumbledore smiled warmly, rising from his chair.

"As mentioned, I knew your father's family well," he said as he began to slowly pace the office, "though everyone from Godric's Hollow 'knew' the Potters, I suppose. It was established as one of the first all-wizarding settlements in the South-West, and I do not doubt that your ancestors lent a hand there. The Crucible, you've heard of it?"

"Yes, Professor."

Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgement. "They lived there, near the outskirts of the Hollow. They were a pleasant family... James was a tad spoiled in his earlier years, though our Charlus and Dorea were already quite old at the time of his birth. He was their miracle.

"And what a miracle indeed. He was an exceptional student, Head Boy in fact, and took to the Single Wand Free-spell event like a natural. Of course, in true Potter fashion, he found ample time to paint the Great Hall red with his home-brewed Strobe Light Pigment. I believe it was the result of an experiment that young Sirius Black and he had conducted during one particular summer, weeks before the Ministry expanded the Witch Watcher stations in Muggle towns nationwide. Timely, if I don't say so myself."

Harry giggled. Maybe having two Dads wasn't so bad, after all.

"Professor Toothill mentioned him being a... Hephaestan, I think it was?" said Harry.

"Ah! Yes," said Dumbledore, his eyes glazing over, "he was indeed. The Guild of the Artful Magus Hephaestus is invitation-only, and James fit the criteria like a mokeskin glove, I must say."

"What _are _the criteria, sir?" asked Harry.

"Professor, Harry," the old wizard reminded him with a smile and a waggling finger. "The Guild is an association which caters to the needs of witches and wizards of proven excellence in certain fields - Sorcery, Artificing, Potioneering for example - but with a noted preference for Transfiguration-oriented works. Your father sat his Mastery trials in those three areas _and_ in that order, naturally, and became the latest in a succession of Potters to learn the mysteries contained within our hallowed halls. Perhaps you might join them too, someday."

"It sounds like quite a bit to take on, Professor," Harry said, trying to mentally calculate how much time he had to catch up.

"Possibly," Dumbledore said as he returned to his seat, "though your father loved it for the most part, as you have been."

Harry leaned back in his armchair as he considered the Headmaster's words.

"What about my mother, Professor?" he asked after a short while.

Dumbledore exhaled. "It must be said, Harry," he replied, "that while I did not know your mother quite as well as I did James, she left just as strong an impression on all who crossed her path. She was just as clever, but anyone who knew of Lily Potter in passing could tell you that. Very mature - more so than some ten times her senior! She was Head Girl too by the way - one of the best in my tenure - and a brilliant potioneer, one of Professor Slughorn's favourites in fact, so he may have a few more stories for you. Although Lily's most remarkable quality, in my opinion," Dumbledore levelled his eyes at Harry's for a long moment, "was her unwavering sense of righteousness."

Harry's mouth felt dry. Was the Headmaster referring to the fight against Grindelwald?

"I owe your parents the world," Dumbledore said softly, eyes downcast, "all those who perished, in fact. Your parents however, sacrificed so much, so young... and that is why we are sat here. Harry, it is now my duty to stand in place of James and Lily, to do what they would have. You know this?"

Harry nodded weakly.

"I do it with relish, Harry," he said, his voice quavering, "as long as you accept."

Harry stared intently at Dumbledore. The old wizard must have felt guilty, but that didn't seem to be what motivated him at all.

"Professor," said Harry, "can I ask you another question?"

Dumbledore sat bolt upright.

"Why yes, Harry," he answered with a faintly bewildered look.

"How do you make your eyes twinkle like that?" asked Harry. "Blaise Zabini believed that I could, so I'm guessing that it's a real thing?"

Dumbledore opened his mouth halfway as if to say something, but soon closed it, frowning.

"I cannot say for sure," he said, thoughtful, "there probably is a spell of sorts."

After another awkward pause, the Headmaster simpered as he looked at Harry.

"On reflection," he said airily, "you are far from the first to ask."

Harry stared at him, mouth crooked.

"So you're not telling me, then," he said dryly. Dumbledore's smile broadened.

"_My_ question, if I may," he said, his eyes twinkling more than ever, "is why you would wish to know such a spell."

_"To give the witches twinkly winks," _a voice breathed from Harry's robes, _"witches love twinkly winks."_

"What?" Harry spluttered, almost jumping in his seat.

Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "Harry? Are you quite all right?"

Harry looked down at his robes, then at the Headmaster, smiling sheepishly.

"Absolutely," he lied.

* * *

"Well, they're in here... "

"Anything interesting?"

"Just a footnote - 'Alan Potter, Chief-wizard of Dumnonia also refused to bathe or otherwise clean himself for four years in a show of support for the Elfish Northern Exodus of fourteen forty-nine.' "

"Nice... _noble_, even."

"That's not funny, Harry."

With Hermione's help, Harry scoured the Library for any information he could find regarding his long-lost family. His conversation with Dumbledore fuelled his ever-growing interest to learn more about his ancestry, and the Headmaster himself recommended the School's facilities, which he maintained were second to none.

That being said, between texts such as _Compare the Cauldron _and __Nightingale_: Rise and Fall of the First Superstar, _information about the Potter family was scattered everywhere. The most they had found so far was a fairly large paragraph in _The Three Rings of Britannia, _which described the Potters as being descended from a very old line of Cornish origin, and whose patriarchs were longstanding members of the early Wizards' Council.

"Honestly, Harry," said Hermione as she slammed _Wizarding Conquests of the Late Middle Ages _shut. "We won't get anywhere like this. What is it specifically that you want to know?"

"That's the problem," Harry said, resting his chin on crossed arms. "I don't even know where to start from."

Hermione chewed on her lip as her eyes wandered over the study area. "Your dad, maybe? He was pretty famous, after all. Or we could look your granddad up again, since he was a Baron for over eighty- "

"Yes, Hermione," said Harry testily, "I remember."

"_Shhh!"_

"Sorry!" Harry hollered, flashing a smile at a withering Anthony Goldstein.

"Sorry," he repeated to Hermione in a hushed voice. "Didn't think it would be this frustrating. I'm fooling myself with this, aren't I? What they did was cool, but I want to know who they _were, _and... " he trailed off as Hermione gave him a pitying look.

"This 'Dark wizard' business is really getting to you, isn't it?" she asked.

Harry didn't answer. It really wasn't something he was in the mood for at that moment. Or ever.

"It could be worse," she said matter-of-factly. "You could be a Mudblood."

"That's not funny, Hermione."

"It isn't?" she gasped, snorting as he shook his head.

Harry launched himself out of his chair. "I've had enough, anyway," he said through a yawn, "dinner?"

"Oh yes, I'm starving," Hermione replied as she sorted the pile of books laying in front of them, "not to mention your presence is bothering poor Anthony."

"Elf Probe?" Harry half-laughed, wrinkling his nose.

As far as he was concerned, the nosy Ravenclaw's peace of mind should have been the least of anyone's worries, let alone Hermione's.

"So, Samhain," Hermione said nonchalantly as they headed towards the Great Hall.

"What about it?" asked Harry.

"The festival," she elaborated, "you're going, aren't you?"

At the most recent Castle assembly, McGonagall announced preparations for the upcoming annual Samhain festival. Athair Gordon, senior among the party of visiting Druids, was invited to shed light on what to expect. Given his Veness-eqsue monologue which centred on the 'soothing embrace of the Wild' or something, Harry wasn't inclined to show much interest in the holiday.

"'Spose so," Harry mumbled, "Seamus said he wants to have his own fire... which is all hot air, knowing him. Why so curious, anyway?"

Hermione winced as they turned a corner. "It's just that, well... didn't your- "

"Oi-oi!" bellowed a familiar voice behind them.

"Hullo, Neville," said Harry as he whirled around to greet his dorm mate, "what's got you all hyper, then?"

"Just in time, aren't I?" he said, grinning as he spread out his arms.

Harry stared at Neville until it clicked.

"Right now?" he moaned, drawing his eyes shut.

Neville prodded Harry in the shoulder. "Promised me at Duelling Club, remember?"

"I did _nothing _of the sort," Harry retorted, but he knew it was in vain. Neville wasn't going to let up if he declined now.

Harry exhaled. "Fine," he said in defeat, "might as well. You coming, Hermione?"

"Where?" she asked, eyes wary.

"To the Slytherin table," said Harry, "for dinner?"

As soon as the words left him, Harry swore he could have felt the temperature in that corridor drop. Neville's face was frozen halfway between a smile and a grimace, and Hermione refused to meet Harry's eyes.

"Er, yeah- " Neville started, but Hermione beat him to the punch.

"I'll pass today," she said tersely, "see you in Sorcery tomorrow?"

"Or the common room," Harry offered, but Hermione had already marched off at full steam.

Neville clapped him on the back. "No worries, mate,' he said reassuringly, "it's not really her scene, is it?"

Harry raised an eyebrow at the blond wizard, perplexed.

"Let's make a move on, then!" Neville said, trotting down the corridor.

* * *

Half an hour later, Harry's concerns about Hermione were all but forgotten as he 'dined in green and silver', as Neville put it. The actual topics of conversation at the Slytherin table, much like the food, were hardly dissimilar from his regular bench, if at all. The company was surprisingly refreshing though, if a little too snarky for his tastes. Either way, Harry was trying his utmost to not enjoy the banter: over the past month, he was certain that he had discovered a positive correlation between overt approval for Draco and any of his resultant obnoxious behaviour.

"Never will I ever," Draco said as he waved a sausage-speared fork at Blaise, "listen to a lick of Boardman, nor will any Malfoy after me. Seriously, what sort of fairy-ring bollocks is _Clear As Mud_ anyway?"

As he proceeded to mercilessly devour the poor tube of meat, Blaise gave him a sidelong glance, his upper-lip curled.

"Did your field elves teach you to eat like that?" he asked. Draco gulped.

"No, your mother did," he replied blithely, "though she did mention bringing one or two in for practice."

Everyone laughed, Blaise included. Neville even dribbled into his goblet of pumpkin juice.

"I _like _Stubby," said Tracey Davis as she gazed longingly into her bowl of soup. "He has the voice of an angel who had its wings torn off."

Harry stared at the girl. She stared at her bowl.

"Potter," Blaise called to him, "Harry even, glad to see you came around."

Harry laughed weakly. "Thanks for the invite, I guess."

Parkinson, who sat to Draco's right, narrowed her eyes at Harry.

"Is it true what they're saying about you, then?" she asked quietly.

Harry suppressed the urge to groan; he knew this topic would rear its ugly head sooner or later. But he was playing away today, and showing any sign of weakness would add another House to his list of bugbears.

He looked back at her, his brow furrowed in feigned innocence. "Haven't the foggiest. What was said, exactly?"

"Don't play dumb now, Potter," Greengrass said in a sing-song voice from her seat beside Parkinson, "we all know that you're a Dark wizard."

Harry looked pointedly at Neville, who gave him a sheepish smile.

"Not that there's anything wrong with it," Draco said as earnestly as he could, though the smugness dripping from his smile betrayed otherwise. "It's not illegal... for the most part."

Harry sniffed. "Understood. I have no idea what makes a wizard 'Dark', though, so I can hardly identify as one."

Greengrass gasped. "Potter doesn't _know _something?"

"I know, right?" Parkinson said giggling.

"Now now, Daphne," said Blaise as he a waggled a finger at the witch, "Potter is our guest- "

"- _Your _guest -"

"- and as a guest, he is to be treated with the utmost courtesy and compassion."

Greengrass wrinkled her nose. "What do you think this is, Blaise? Afternoon tea?"

"No, I just think it would be nice if- "

'Nice?' Greengrass spat. '_Nice? _I was nabbed by a _squid!_'

"It's not like I didn't try to save you," Harry said, shrugging while he looked off into thin air. Neville nodded in kind.

"See?" Blaise said as he gestured towards the pair of Gryffindors. "All water under the bridge. We're all friends here - bosom buddies, even!"

"Bosoms... ha!" Neville cackled. Draco snorted.

"Buzzkill Blaise," grumbled Parkinson, pouting, "always trying to ruin our fun. So Potter, who's your crush?"

That one caught Harry off-guard. "My- sorry?"

Not a moment later, Greengrass' dark blue eyes shone with mischief.

"Come on now, Potter," she said softly, a teasing lilt to her tone, "even villains have their 'third cousins'."

"_That's _what it means?" mouthed Harry, mostly to himself.

"It's Granger, isn't it?" asked Draco, smiling wryly.

"You what?" blustered Harry.

Blaise stuck out his lower lip, gazing downward in contemplation.

"Fair enough," he said, "not a good look though, Potter."

Parkinson giggled again, and Harry felt his eye twitch.

"Ah, Hermione's all right," Neville said jauntily as he nudged Harry's forearm, "she's a good one, eh?"

_A good 'what' exactly, Neville?_

Parkinson idly shook her head as she reached for a pepper shaker. "I don't know, she's got a mouth on her. It's nothing to do with Muggle-borns - well, not _most_ of them, you know. Like, I'll give her credit for being smart... "

Greengrass huffed. "Her being Muggle-born has everything to do with it," she said sourly. "It's all she goes on about! Why are we obliged to humour it, as if I have nothing better to do with my time?"

"Because you don't?" Harry muttered under his breath. He felt something blunt crush his foot not long after.

"Cool it," Neville whispered from the side of his mouth.

Why Neville would care so much for appearances in front of the Slytherins did make some sense to Harry. He was acquainted with a number of them for a while before Hogwarts, after all. But Harry _didn't _care. Well, Blaise was all right enough, he reckoned. Even Draco and Parkinson were tolerable to an extent... as was Tracey Davis, most definitely... but he was less than a few forkfuls away from cursing that Greengrass girl's broccoli.

_If only I knew how..._

It would be a full five seconds before Harry would realise that his maniacal laughter was not, in fact, solely 'in his head'.

The group fell silent, save a few muffled giggles from Parkinson and Davis. Blaise set his gaze on Harry and Neville yet again, his eyes slightly drawn as if he were deep in thought.

"Granger will get the picture soon enough," he finally said with self-assurance, "memorial's the day before the festival, isn't it?"

"Yep," Parkinson sighed, rolling her shoulders back, "we usually go down to York with Grandma. Maybe not this year..."

Draco grimaced. "Your great uncle," he said, "in Hungary, wasn't it?"

Parkinson merely nodded, apparently far more interested in slicing through the rest of her steak.

The final Wednesday of October, as Harry had learned in assembly, was the Union's official day of remembrance for those who had died in various tragedies from time immemorial. The Wild, according to Athair Gordon (_who else?_) assumed the form of the old god Woden himself to guide the departed souls of magical beings to the great beyond.

"It's all they're good for, Muggles," Greengrass said disdainfully, "always trying to cut us down."

A few murmurs of agreement echoed around her as Harry frowned.

"I lived with them for ten years," he protested, "nothing happened to me."

"You are Jumpsparked, though," said Draco soberly.

Greengrass' eyes flashed as her hand flew to her mouth.

"No way," she choked, "you had to... ten _years?_"

"Daphne," Draco said, exasperated, 'he's Jumpsparked, for Wild's sake!"

"What the _hell _does that mean, Malfoy?"

Draco exhaled harshly, burying his face in his palms.

"It's blood, Potter," he said after a moment, looking thoroughly tired, "oldest of the old, newest of the new. You get your magic from your family, and because you're both old and new, yours is... well... Jumpsparked."

"He's just being an idiot, Harry," said Neville frantically, grabbing Harry by the shoulder as if he were about to disappear.

Finally vindicated in his beliefs, Harry was just about to heartily voice his sharing of Neville's sentiments when the Castle bells tolled.

"Aren't classes over today?" Harry asked Neville, who shrugged.

"If I could please have your attention," the voice of Professor Dumbledore rang over the surrounding hubub, "we have received urgent word from the Ministry. It is with the deepest regret that I inform you of the passing of the Honourable Wizard Ignatius Prewett at twenty-three minutes past four this afternoon. Wizard Prewett was a Hogwarts alumnus of many accolades as well as a long-serving Governor of the Board, and as such, we shall organise a memorial service for this weekend. I am aware of his several relatives in attendance, and to you I confer my condolences. If we could hold for two minutes of silence I'd be most grateful and then... as you were."

The Headmaster's voice croaked as he finished his announcement, and he seemed to take the longest age to return to his seat, McGonagall tightly gripping his hand.

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's** **note: **Hi buds, thanks for reading, and for the reviews, as always! _Untitled Tome _reached 10,000 hits after the last chapter - good to know that people are still following the story, so I hope you enjoy this one. Special shout-out to _ SirDoge_ \- missing you like crazy, man. I must credit Taure from DLP for the Squire's Square idea; was racking my brain for a standard set of duelling spells for restricted comps, and one of his posts in a thread there made loads of sense. He's a great writer, so if you haven't heard of him then definitely have a look at his stuff.


	10. Pansy Eats A Pumpkin

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Albus goes for a drink, Harry ponders the badly explained, and Greengrass has a giggle.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Ten - Pansy Eats A Pumpkin**

_Wednesday afternoons in the Wizengamot Chambers are oft-brutal affairs, the years of the Glorious Expansion playing no exception. As Grindelwald and the Trishula movement's influence continued to fester westward, threatening the Swiss, the French and even the Finns far north, Europe was none too willing to stand by our Union in its efforts to prevent further global breaches of the Statute of Secrecy. One would expect, then, that the wise men of the Isles would drape themselves in at least some veneer of cohesion for the sake of national morale. And yet, the shenanigans of partisan Wizards and Barons alike showed no signs of abating, reaching far beyond mere infantile politicking. _

_Our once proud 'Ring of Sophists', composed of several dozen grown witches and wizards (whom, I might add, were all considered Britannia's greatest) had become all but a cesspool of the foulest odour. Wands were drawn like elf-rods by some frontbenchers, and the helpings of vulgar language in debate were even more liberal than what one might expect to hear from youngsters in the playing fields. The summer of '62 would see a particularly unpleasant case in Wizengamot deliberations over the Cove Review: the proposal to defend British territories against all incoming attempts at _magical transportation _from the continent. Half of the Union Party's members were believed to be Muggle moles at various stages, while the most vocal of the hardline Pocks were branded Grindelwald sympathisers. I fear that were it not for those who rallied behind the Sir Albuses and Baron Longbottoms, the likelihood of Trishula flags flying atop the masts of York would have been that much greater. As one would, we had quite the collection of Portkeys back then._

~ Ignatius T Prewett WGO, excerpt from _Lights Out in Diagon Alley_

* * *

Hogsmeade Village was Albus' first love. The speckled ring of thatched cottages, shops and the very occasional townhouse was a sight more homely than the lofty towers and sprawling tunnels of Wizarding York's scattered districts. It was little more than a good walk from the Castle, and the company was palpably warmer than that of the Alleys down south, whose predominant denizens were less than fond of wizards in general, let alone himself. Unaffectedly, Albus would think of himself as being the first among wizards to welcome the Goblin Nation with open arms, but he wasn't foolish enough to even hope that the feeling was mutual. The incumbent wizard-gatekeeper to the sword of Godric Gryffindor, he would forever remain an enemy of Ragnuk the First's issue. It made trips to London a hassle far greater than their worth, and for that, he was most thankful for Elphias' frequent visits in his stead. Fortunately, Hogsmeade played host to a thriving hag community whom the goblins loathed for reasons mostly unknown to wizards. Albus therefore savoured every free weekend by spending at least half of it annoying his younger brother, Aberforth, whose establishment was unlikely to receive much attention on a typical Saturday afternoon.

As Fortune would have it, this Saturday afternoon was far from typical. Drinking in the scene ahead, Albus withdrew a ragged breath, trying his utmost to admire the miniature headstones and the talking turnip jack-o-lanterns lit by ruby-red flames as he traipsed along the muddy village path. Samhain was fast approaching; it was a time reserved for reflecting on the lives of those since passed, but Albus felt justified in feeling that he had already taken his fill over the past week.

He wasn't angry at Death, exactly. Iggy would have been the first to proclaim that he had lived a full life, and not one of the old guard could claim the grounds to disagree. If Albus had spent the past seventy-two hours accompanied by Elphias, Doris Crockford, the Poke siblings and whoever else would join as they recounted the Prewett patriarch's most outrageous features (such as the time he nearly eloped with a selkie) over copious amounts of Firewhisky, his mind would have otherwise been at ease, despite his grief. Instead, he had spent the last few days poring over every one of Iggy's last known movements before his demise which, although unexplained, was most definitely unnatural. It was with a heavy heart and troubled conscience that Albus rapped on the beaten oak doors of the Hog's Head Inn, not a couple of hours after the close of the memorial service.

"Password or you ain't comin' in!" a high, tinny voice shrieked from above.

Albus stepped back as his eyes flicked upwards to the washed-out sign, then down towards the upper door frame. He peered in fascination at the shrunken gnome's head that dangled from it.

"A charming touch," he said none too convincingly. "Whatever became of Mr Gimble?"

"Got the sack," the head replied, spitting a dust-ball at Albus' feet. "Password or you _ain't comin' in._"

Albus forced a toothy grin as he recited his personally assigned, never-changing code.

"Brian is a name solely reserved for gits of the ponciest order."

The doors swung open, crashing into the walls of the tavern, reluctantly granting Albus passage. As he crossed the threshold, his nostrils were greeted by the familiar aroma of dust and spilled mead. Aberforth never did take to Scouring Charms, but it was no excuse. Spraying a few pinches of Sudsson's Dry-Finish Quick Cleaner would have done the trick.

Albus supposed that the strong smell added to the character of the place, in a way. With a rutted stone floor caked in mud, oak furnishings laden with a thin yet stubborn layer of grime, and windows peppered with fibres from a source he would rather not think about, the hovel of an inn fittingly resembled a pig's den - troughs and all, if one squinted hard enough at the filthy iron bowls at the bar. Despite the state of the Hog's Head, it still had its regulars, and the handful accounting for the Saturday lot were in full effect.

"So I tells 'im," a short, balding wizard wearing a wrinkled shirt and hose rasped to his similarly disheveled companions, " 'you leave that man an' his goats be, 'cos he treats 'em ruddy well, he does. You on the ovva hand, you gnome-tossin' nonce...' "

The wizard cut his tale short to down the contents of a dusty shot glass, the small group surrounding him howling with laughter. Albus chuckled as he strode forward, but was stopped firmly in his tracks by a gruff voice from behind the bar.

"Back booth. Said he was waiting for you."

Albus looked to the crowd's right to find his near mirror image staring back at him, if a tad more severe.

"Thank you, Aberforth," he said genially, bowing his head. "You were missed."

Aberforth merely grunted, shuffling away as he turned to listen to the patron's tale.

As he approached the booth in question, Albus happened upon the stationary form of a thin, red-haired wizard dressed in mourning robes of grey and mauve, very similar to his own. The cloudy glass of orange juice on the table stood conspicuously untouched, his attention focused on the scene from beyond the grimy window.

"Arthur," whispered Albus, delicately placing a hand upon the younger man's shoulder. Arthur started at the touch, his eyes widening in momentary alarm as his head whirled around.

"Oh! Sir Albus," he said breathlessly, stolen from his reverie. "It's good to see you."

Albus inclined his head, taking a seat on the other side of the booth. "Likewise," he replied warmly, "though the circumstances are... most regrettable. My heartfelt condolences to you and the family."

"Thank you, sir," said Arthur, shakily raking a hand through his thinning crown. "He was a great man, Iggy was. He was always there for us - took more of a liking to me than Molly's father, even... "

Albus cracked a smile, reminded all too well of his late friend's embracing nature.

"I spoke briefly with her," he said, "shortly before leaving the Castle."

"You did?" asked Arthur, wincing. "I'm... really sorry if- "

"Not at all," said Albus, raising his hand, "it is to be expected. The Forensics Office are using all available resources to reach a conclusion as we speak."

Arthur nodded meekly. "Any idea on how long it may take, sir?"

"There are talks of cross-department investigation - do not fret," he added quickly as Arthur nursed his brow in fatigue, "at most, the process will continue for a few days, maybe less if Mysteries are brought in. You will not have to wait for much longer."

"She's working herself to death," said Arthur tonelessly, idly tracing the condensation on his glass. "Constant back-and-forth with the Druids down at Amesbury. They're fully booked for ceremonies, you know, given the season. Her Aunt - you know Muriel? She could care less about the funeral itself, let alone where it's happening, but Molly's insistent on having it there, since it's where they sent Lucy off. The most she's said to me all week was 'there's no point in me cooking if we don't have a body'. She's gone round the bend. Not that I can blame her."

Albus grimaced. Though a cheerful wizard by nature, Iggy never had been the same after his dear wife, Lucretia, had passed on just over a decade ago. While Albus was confident that truly departed souls placed little importance on the geographical locations of their mortal resting places, he held no doubt that his old friend would have appreciated the gesture of being buried next to his love on such a fitting holiday.

It was unsurprising that Molly, a selfless witch by all accounts, was fully shouldering the burden of laying her uncle to rest while his own sister showed little interest in offering any assistance. Unsurprising, but heartbreaking nonetheless.

"The Department won't let me anywhere near the case," continued Arthur, clasping his glass. "I understand why. But still, is there nothing you can tell us?"

Knowing Bartemius Crouch, the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Albus safely assumed that such a denial of information to family members was executed on his orders. It was a typical procedure, but Arthur was a Head of Office in said Department, and by all rights would normally be granted the proper security clearance.

Even so, Barty had his reasons. Given Iggy's status in the public sphere and his near-clean bill of health before his death, the case was being treated with a high degree of suspicion. Though Albus trusted both Arthur's integrity and skill as a wizard, he didn't want to risk any confidential information falling into the wrong hands.

"Arthur, you and Molly will be the first to know- "

"Please_, _Sir Albus," the younger wizard appealed. "I'd bet that Barty warned you about me, but you know he's off his rocker. We need this - _Molly_ needs this. She deserves it."

Albus' gaze shifted towards the grimy window. He was not unused to breaching Ministry protocol, but the details of Iggy's case were most sensitive. On the other hand, Arthur and Molly were anything but disloyal, and Albus owed them much more, if anything.

He acquiesced, withdrawing his wand. Before he could cast a handy Muting Charm, however, Arthur raised his hand.

"No need, sir," he said quickly, pointing to his little finger on which he wore a single golden band.

Albus stared at it for a while. When his senses barely traced the effects of the ring's sigils on the booth itself, Albus smiled despite himself.

_An Obfuscation Array before the fact, _he thought, _you are wasted at the Ministry, Arthur._

"They have exhausted all the standard tests for spell damage," he said after some time, "certainly no trace of the Killing Curse being cast on Ignatius nor on anything else in the house."

Arthur frowned. "No trace of the Killing Curse," he repeated, "says a bit about what they're looking for."

"The body itself shows no traces of hostile magic that we know of," he said, looking Arthur in the eye. "For all that one might glean from an autopsy, he may as well have died of natural causes- "

"Why hold on to him, then?" asked Arthur, his voice betraying mild agitation. "They're obviously onto something, there. The man visited us a _week _ago, Albus. He Apparated there and back, for Wild's sake!'

"Yes, I am aware," replied Albus evenly, "but as I said, his body as of yet shows no signs of trauma, be it magical or otherwise. His effects, however... a letter was discovered on his bedside drawer. It was addressed to him, unsigned."

"What did it say?" the red-haired wizard urged.

Albus hesitated before responding.

" 'To Wizard Prewett'," he said quietly, his voice faltering slightly, " 'champion of mushrooms.' "

Arthur gawked at him for a second.

"You're serious."

"I believe it is an allusion to your uncle-in-law's well-known criticisms of anti-Muggle activism," answered Albus, "specifically, his ridicule of Hambledon Quince's _Evolution of Muggles From Mushrooms_... a sad joke, yes, but the letter itself contained a considerably Dark taint. Not surprisingly, trying to trace the owl back proved fruitless."

Arthur nodded slowly. "So it's... "

"We cannot rule out murder at present," Albus confirmed. "It is likely, but far from certain."

Arthur hunched his shoulders, his head bowed as if he were withdrawing into a shell.

"It is a horrifying prospect," said Albus gravely, "and immensely taxing on the health of loved ones left behind. Take all the leave you need, I am sure Barty will understand."

Arthur remained silent, his pale blue eyes stricken with dread as they met Albus' own.

"Something else troubles you, Arthur?"

Arthur swallowed. "Molly. She's got these... ideas in her head."

Albus nodded for him to continue.

"She thinks it's a- an Order thing. Or a mark on the Prewett line, maybe."

Albus' brow furrowed. _A vendetta?_

"Would you agree?" he asked warily.

Arthur ran a palm over his mouth as he exhaled. "I don't know, honestly," he said, peering at the window again, "but Molly's convinced, all right. She's got Gideon and Fabian locked up at the Burrow for starters, and they're not complaining. Maybe there's something to it."

Both were unlikely in Albus' frank opinion, though an assault on the Prewett line specifically was far more plausible. The Order of the Phoenix was largely unknown for its (mostly discontinued) clandestine paramilitary operations outside of the Trishula's own ranks, and dear Gellert wouldn't dare order a hit on British soil as long as Albus could use his wand. This was most likely a domestic affair.

On the other hand, the Prewetts as a family weren't known for engaging in feuds, nor were they publicly recognised for any common causes other than their humanitarian work with the Order. In all appearances, Gideon bred Hippogriffs while Fabian served part-time as a Hit Wizard, and Molly had become a housewife straight out of Hogwarts. Their father, old Enipeus Prewett, succumbed to dragon pox over ten years ago.

None of his three children had shown much interest in politics, and the only wizards who should have known about the twins' exploits as hired wands against the Eastern Republic would have been other Order members. Having learned from experience, however, Albus was not one to discount familial instincts. This would warrant further investigation on his part, far away from the Ministry's radar.

"I would not worry," he said reassuringly. "We shall see about Bartemius arranging a sentry by the Burrow. He's probably thought of it already, to his credit. If not, I am sure that we could consult a - ah, friend, as it were."

After a long pause, Arthur dipped his head in acknowledgement, giving Albus a wan smile.

"I'd best be going," he said as he rose from his seat, "don't want Molly getting the wrong idea, considering... thank you for all your help, Sir Albus, she'll appreciate it. I know I do."

"I wish I could do more," replied Albus, shaking Arthur's limp hand. "Do take care."

_I must do more, _he thought, _for you and for them, old friend._

* * *

" '_Halt, creature!' barked the knight as he marched the length of the ageing bridge. His boots were as thunder as they pounded every plank- '_ Blimey... He's a lairy bloke, eh girl?"

Hedwig gave Harry a sidelong glance.

"Please, I can feel you shivering," remarked Harry.

Harry was taking a long, well-deserved break from his studies in the Owlery, a recent haunt of his. He had learned very early on that his owl was the jealous type (Harry suspected that she knew of his keen interest in a certain set of amphibians) and so he endeavoured to spend quality time with her when he could, which generally equated to an hour or so of pampering the snowy owl.

This particular evening visit culminated in Harry reading Hedwig a chapter from _Ninny and the Flightless Fairy_, with a bag of Eeylops Premium Owl Treats in tow:

"Anyway,_ 'and his helm as lightning, flashing and gleaming as it stole the moon's rays. He ripped his blade from its scabbard; Ninny heard the screams of a thousand dying elves, and was reminded of how alone she truly was in that moment. But Ninny was not a dying elf. Her blood still ran warm, and would do so until all the fairies of Stodge Forest were set free! She looked up at the sky, deep as sapphire, inspired once more...' "_

"_Prek?_" Hedwig barked as Harry fell silent.

He scratched his head. "Huh. Sapphires, Hedwig - I just got a brainwave! Why didn't I think of it before?"

He set the book down, diving into his satchel in search of his Latin dictionary. It had to work; he found it hard to not imagine a sapphire when thinking of the word 'blue' at that point.

"Aha," he mouthed as he located the pocket text, feverishly running through its pages to find the appropriate translation.

"Sapphire - _hyacinthus_ \- like the flower? Makes me think purple, though... hmm... _beryllus_," he muttered, tracing a finger over the page. This would require an immediate investigation.

"Hedwig," he said, stroking the owl's back feathers, "I'm gonna use one of your treats, okay?"

Hedwig narrowed her eyes, but otherwise showed no signs of protest.

"You can still eat it," he said defensively, fishing out a treat from the half eaten packet. "Right, let's give this a go..."

Determined to work on his extra-curricular Sorcery as much as possible, Harry dedicated much of his free time - and some of his sleep - to finding just the right set of spells for their ('right deadly', in Seamus' words) Samhain bonfire. _U R Firestarter_ turned out to be an invaluable starting point, demonstrating how tiny changes to the wand movements of the Fire-Making Charm could help to produce flames of various intricate shapes. It was one of the first pieces of Sorcery that he had resolved to learn ahead of schedule, and aside from explaining away the smell of singed hair in the dorms, he looked forward to developing his skill with the spell after already attaining a respectable degree of control.

But he wanted to go further. Learning the fairly advanced Colour Change Charm was on top of his list of priorities, but the _Dazzling Hues_ spellbook he had found in the Library recommended that novices find a personally representative object for each unique colour, complete with a perfectly corresponding verbal component for the incantation. Considering that Harry often identified the colours with distinctively modern Muggle objects, he wasn't very confident in translating them. So far, he'd only managed to turn his quill a bright orange, and that had faded after a few minutes. If things got desperate, though, he reckoned that he could always try sneezing on the flames like he did before going to Hogwarts.

_Pm to Ptc_, he thought intently, revisiting the paces of the formula as he visualised his Icon.

_There we go... watery wizlets, halves and high..._

"_Colovaria beryllo_."

A wispy puff of white smoke covered the honey-brown owl treat in his outstretched palm. As he watched with bated breath, it flickered through all the colours of the rainbow, eventually settling on a murky greenish turquoise.

But he had done everything right. Memorizing how to integrate a spell's elements should have been the hardest part. Once he got that down pat, he never encountered these problems with Transformation Spells. But this was a Charm... so it had to be the incantation, surely?

"Okay then, let's try... _asteria..._ another flower? Hedwig, work with me here."

Hedwig barked half-heartedly in response, likely in regards to her misgivings about the limited-edition treat. It was a dull green, after all.

"Guess I can look it up later... well, here goes - _Colovaria asteriae!_"

The owl treat flickered through the rainbow yet again, this time deciding on a pale, but definitely more blue complexion. It looked like it would hold for a while, too. The edges stubbornly remained turquoise, but progress was progress.

Humming in satisfaction, Harry offered the snack to Hedwig, who promptly swatted it away.

"Well then," Harry huffed, snatching the bag of Eeylops Premium Owl Treats as he stood up to collect his belongings. "I suppose these are going back in the trunk, aren't they? But you've always had a thing for mice, so -"

Hedwig apparently wasn't receptive, if her wounded-sounding coo was anything to go by. Before Harry could take another step, the snowy owl perched on his shoulder, fiercely nuzzling his neck.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Honestly Hedwig," he exhaled, "you come straight out of a comic book."

* * *

The Castle's mood in the week leading up to Samhain was decidedly bittersweet. For one, Hermione and the Weasley siblings were to attend their great-uncle Ignatius' funeral near Stonehenge, according to the _Prophet, _which reported later on that the elderly wizard's death was being treated as a homicide. Harry remembered looking over from the Slytherin table after Professor Dumbledore's announcement, noting that all of them were conspicuously absent at that point. He had sent a letter to Ron and Hermione a few days later expressing his regret, Hedwig returning not long after with a concise reply:

_Harry,_

_Thank you for keeping us in your thoughts. We're back for the festival - will catch up then._

_H&amp;R_

Neville was also absent from the Gryffindor Tower, but under a wholly separate pretense: Union Memorials. He, along with his grandmother, great-uncle and several thousand other witches and wizards headed to York to pay his respects to the fallen. To this day, Harry was ignorant of exactly what happened to the Longbottoms, though he didn't dare ask Neville (or anyone else). Everyone else had expertly avoided the issue so far, so he simply followed suit.

The occasion brought with it another sobering realisation. According to Professor Doge, his own mother and father met their end on the thirty-first of October. Harry still didn't know what to feel about that, beyond his growing frustration at being associated with anything Dark. After all, his parents must have died by way of Dark magic. Grindelwald was a known practitioner of the Dark Arts, a set of tools which were perfectly suited for murder. And yet, a stubborn, vocal minority among the student body grasped at straws while clinging to the belief that Harry Potter, Dark apprentice, would undoubtedly use his magical knowledge of all three months to sacrifice some unsuspecting first-year on Samhain eve for unbridled power... and not mourn the deaths of his late mother and father who had both been slain by said horrific methods.

Memorial Day was very uncomfortable. For every wizard whose loved ones had perished in a Muggle witchhunt, from a dragon pox outbreak or even in the midst of a collapsing Expansion Enchantment, there were four more whose ancestors managed to escape those magical disasters. The number was probably far higher in the Castle; children of the families which cared the most were already observing the rituals at York.

Athair Gordon, Root-Priest extraordinaire was not one to be outshone, of course. Hogwarts observed the Memorials in the Middle Courtyard that day, with chairs for students and staff lining the quadrangle's edges. The Druids (accompanied by Professor Veness and another elderly wizard who was presumably from the Theurgy department) had an altar covered by a crimson cloth in the centre, with what looked like an old jug, baskets of fruit and vegetables and even a plate of meat and bread laid in a circle. Harry assumed that they were offerings to the dead, if Veness' odd musings about a "worthy harvest" in yesterday's class were any indication.

The ministers of the ritual encircled the altar, chanting an arcane-sounding hymn in a harmony that was oddly rousing to Harry. The Root-Priest soon broke away from the group and turned his attention to the spectators, gently wafting a chained brass flask containing sweet-smelling smoke every which way. The scene was quite alike the Sunday Masses that Miss Meacham would occasionally drag the orphanage children to, though she would likely faint at something as 'blasphemous' as this.

He might have joined her. Several minutes passed, and Harry was beginning to feel dizzy. The chants rang heavy between his ears, and his nostrils felt like they were on fire.

"All right there, Harry?" Dean asked from his left, frowning.

Harry nodded quickly. "Just a little off," he replied, rubbing his abdomen, "eggs were kind of runny."

It was a rubbish lie; the food at Hogwarts was never poorly cooked. Draco would have had his father fire the cooks for less. But Harry was hardly going to admit to falling ill from something as apparently routine as the ritual taking place before them.

Nonetheless, his symptoms only worsened. Colours gradually faded from the scene, and the air itself turned stale - chilled, yet uncomfortably thick with a distinctly mouldy taste. Looking around confirmed that a select few among the other first-years were similarly disoriented, but that did little to comfort him.

_"Stay awake, idiot," _his wand breathed from beneath his robes. _"Don't want to cause a scene now, do we?"_

_You're one to talk, _Harry thought back in defiance, trying to focus his attention on anything other than the ritual - like whatever Tracey Davis was doing two rows down.

Something weird, most likely.

Harry's wand was as outspoken as ever throughout the past week, specifically during all but the most embarrassing situations - which naturally occurred often. He hoped it was normal, but in which world were wands supposed to verbally tease their owners? He certainly hadn't heard any of his friends mention it.

An indeterminate period later (Harry could have sworn it lasted several days), Athair Gordon set down his smoky flask by the altar and dispersed the circle of ministers, who bowed to each other and returned to their seats. He muttered something unintelligible to Harry's ears - even more so than the previous chanting - and clapped his hands thrice. Just as the thickness in the air reached breaking point, Harry felt something heavy press his chest for the briefest of moments. His various ailments subsided immediately - he had trouble even faintly remembering what they felt like later on that day.

It wasn't until the Root-Preist dismissed everyone that Harry realised something even stranger: the offerings were nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"I just don't get it," said Harry, rapping a knuckle against his chin as they headed for Gryffindor Tower. "You're sure it wasn't a Vanishing Spell?"

Dean sighed. "For the last time, mate," he said, exasperated, "definitely. I doubt he's much of a sorcerer, anyway."

"So where did it all _go?_"

Dean shared a look with Seamus, flailing his arms about in frustration as his sandy-haired friend sniggered.

"That doesn't answer my question, you know."

Out of the blue, the taller boy gripped him by the shoulders, spinning him around to face the altar in the distance.

"He's right over there," said Dean bluntly, pointing at the grey-clad wizard idly circling the area. "Why don't you go ask _him?_"

"Maybe I will," replied Harry, affronted. What was wrong with wanting to know?

"All right, mate," said Dean, giving him a lazy wave. "Catch you in the Common Room, yeah?"

He nodded them off before running over to the Druid, who appeared to be just as pre-occupied with the empty altar as he was.

Harry cleared his throat, alerting the elder wizard to his presence. "Athair Gordon, sir?"

"Yes, my child?" he answered in a broad, bassy tremor that resembled a resounding gong. His appearances during School assembly had quickly become notorious, mostly because his voice had an anesthetic effect on half of the student body.

Harry tried his best not to meet the Druid's unsettling gaze.

"I was, ah, just wondering, Athair," he mumbled, "where the, er, offerings... went."

Gordon flinched, almost imperceptibly, but Harry definitely caught the motion.

"May I ask your name, child?" he said.

Harry frowned. What did that have to do with anything?

"Er - Harry, sir. Harry Potter."

The old Druid looked at him for a time, his dull, turquoise eyes betraying nothing as they scanned Harry's face.

"The _last Potter_," he whispered, mostly to himself it seemed. "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. The Wild rejoices at your coming home, I am sure."

Harry smiled weakly. "Thank you, sir."

The Druid hummed appreciatively, returning Harry's smile with a ghost of his own.

"In regards to your question, my child, there is only one place the offering _can _go. On."

"On, sir?"

"On," the Druid repeated, stretching his arm to the far west. "For it is where we are all destined to travel... in a carriage or in chains, the choice is ours to make. We have entrusted Woden with our tributes to the departed - in His name the harvest shall reach them undeterred."

"Right," Harry said, quietly assured that the Root-Priest didn't believe his own words. He was a charlatan! No one came to take anything, let alone a god. The offerings were simply there one second, and gone in the next. Surely not all wizards believed this stuff?

_"Well?" _his wand said impatiently. _"At least thank the man for his time!"_

Harry was about to give the holly stick a piece of his mind before its tip scorched him in the gut, causing him to yelp out loud.

"Th-thank you for your time, Athair," Harry said, bowing and scurrying off before he could embarrass himself further.

Far more puzzled than before, Harry resolved to read a bit more about the underpinnings of Theurgy at some point - no matter how frustrating it was. Whatever it was that Veness was teaching, it definitely didn't work the same way that Sorcery did. But even if that was the case, if she just explained things a little further...

_Why does everyone seem to get it but me?_

He chose not to dwell on the matter for the moment. Taking advantage of the mild weather, Harry stole a couple of sandwiches from the Great Hall and opted to eat in the Courtyard. He regretted this decision mere seconds later, when a pair of very familiar voices travelled towards him from the tunnel several yards away.

He wasn't listening, though.

"She's your _aunt_, Tracey," he heard Parkinson complain as they entered the courtyard. "Can't you just... you know... "

"No, I can't," Tracey said, crossing her arms. "You're getting straight _A_s, anyway. What's the big deal?"

"Mummy said she'd take my Wireless if I get less than an _E _in Cardinals," whimpered Parkinson.

Harry didn't think that anyone used wirelesses any more, what with television sets and such, but he supposed that ambient magic frying appliances was a really big deal as Professor Doge had said. Mr Watts agreed as much in Artificing.

Tracey hissed as if in pain. "That's rough," she said, sitting on a low-lying wall in the distance. "Didn't you just have that enchanter over to add the Visual board?"

Parkinson nodded glumly.

"It's so unfair," she wailed, throwing her hands up in the air as she flopped down beside Tracey. "Yuletide is going to _suck, _Trace! She's such a- "

Parkinson's eyes widened as they latched on to Harry's form.

_"You've been spotted," _his wand breathed in amusement._ "Abort! Abort!"_

"Potter!" she shouted, grinning from ear to ear.

Harry could have continued eating his sandwich as if he hadn't heard her, but that would have been the cowardly way out.

"You called?" he said nonchalantly as he sauntered over to the girls.

Parkinson rummaged through her own bag, fishing out a lumpy shape wrapped in colourful patterned cloth.

"Treacle Tart or two?" she said sweetly, holding the mound out to Harry. "They're homemade!"

_"She knows your weakness," _his wand gasped.

"What's the catch?" asked Harry. "Greengrass made them, didn't she?"

Tracey snorted, stopping herself abruptly as she caught Harry's eyes.

"No, silly," Parkinson said, chuckling, "my father did. They've even got a Heating Charm on them."

Harry said nothing. Parkinson wasn't nasty by any means, but she didn't keep the most desirable company.

Parkinson rolled her eyes. "Daphne's not back 'til Friday. Relax, Potter!"

He eventually relented. Harry had to admit that the tarts were delicious - the Heating Charm was cast _just_ right, too. He didn't feel a hint of warmth until he bit through the pastry.

"So Potter," Parkinson said after a few minutes of eating in silence, "you're clever."

Harry shrugged. "Depends on what you're asking, I guess."

"Wanna do my Cardinals homework?"

Tracey groaned into her hands.

"What?" said Parkinson, glaring at the girl.

"That's not really the point of homework, though- " started Harry, reaching for another tart before Parkinson slapped his hand.

"No more for you," she said sharply before hanging her head.

"This sucks!" Parkinson cried. "Johnson's never going to up my grade and it's both your faults!"

Harry frowned at Tracey. "Wait," he said, scratching behind his ear, "your aunt's Professor Johnson?"

The two witches stared at him, incredulous.

"Really Potter?" said Parkinson, eyelids drawn.

Harry held up his hands in protest. "Hey, I actually _study _in class. Sorry that I don't remember every face in the hall because I keep my head down."

"Our whole year's in the same class!"

"It's just weird to imagine a teacher with," said Harry awkwardly, ignoring Parkinson, "you know, family members. Especially in the same class."

Tracey made a face. "It's not like I'm alone. Her daughter's in Gryffindor."

"She is? Which year?"

Parkinson grunted. "For the love of Melty Corn, Potter! Johnson? Second Seven Quidditch?"

Harry's eyes glazed over.

"Angelina frigging Johnson!"

Now that rang a bell. _Angelina... _yes, he knew now. She was a third year - on the taller side - and was usually spotted carrying a Quaffle under her arm. George Weasley followed her around in the Common Room, often singing her name before a verse of uncharacteristically tame, but still rather disturbing lyrics.

He sucked in a breath as it all clicked. "Angelina Johnson's your cousin!"

Tracey laughed, looking at Harry as if he had discovered a spoon for the first time.

"You two really look alike, now I come to think of it," he added.

"If _that _isn't a compliment," muttered Parkinson under her breath. Tracey appeared to ignore it, so Harry did too.

"So... can I have another tart?"

Parkinson levelled her eyes at him. "Are you going to do my Cardinals essay?"

Harry looked at the pile of pastries in thought.

"If you write to your dad," he finally said, "I'd be glad to do them for the year."

* * *

The Castle bells struck one as he blazed through the corridors that day, informing Harry that he was already late for his first Duelling Squad practice. It had been postponed the other week, as had all other extra-curricular activities after the announcement of Wizard Prewett's death. Professor Dumbledore attributed the decision to something along the lines of 'recognising the invaluable contributions made by Governors for the sake of their community'. Harry thought it unnecessary, but soon remembered that he wasn't the Headmaster - being told what to do by people who weren't even teachers must have irritated him to no end.

_A curse on Salazar's house, _he thought ruefully as he slipped between two older pupils, accidentally clipping one of them on the elbow. He hadn't expected his conversation with Tracey and Parkinson to overrun.

"Potter!" screeched the ever-grating voice of one Prefect Aaron Jones. "That's a Saturday morning detention!"

Harry swore blue murder; Saturday was the day of the festival, and now that he was making good progress with the Colour Change Charm, he was really looking forward to the event. Unfortunately, Jones had just effectively cut his preparation time in half.

He would worry about that later, in any case. As he burst through the changing rooms, Harry let out a sigh of relief upon finding it empty, but his ease was painfully short-lived.

"Ah, Potter," Merrythought's voice wafted from the office. "We were beginning to think you'd done a runner!"

Harry chuckled nervously. "Me? Never, Coach!"

As he creaked open the door, Harry peered through to meet the expectant gazes of Merrythought and Susan Bones.

It was strange. Considering the red hair, squared jaws and the conversation he had just minutes ago with Tracey, he would have sworn that the two witches were related.

"Meet your new partner, Potter," Merrythought said cheerfully, placing large but slender hands on the wary Susan's shoulders. "I've got something special planned for you two today, I'll have you know!"

Harry grinned, holding out a hand to the Hufflepuff witch. "Let's get to it then, partner!"

Susan narrowed her eyes slightly, her stare alternating between Harry's outstretched hand and his face. She accepted the gesture, albeit with a very limp shake.

The rangy Professor nodded in approval, hands on hips. "All righty, off we go!"

She had them training in the Yellow Studio, which was considerably larger than the Junior Club members' room. Its platforms varied in shape as well as size: some were round; others were hilly; and one star-shaped platform had spokes pointing in several directions, surely meant for a group of eight. Every stage corner was punctuated by a tall metal pole with deep carvings, which Harry assumed were laden with protective enchantments. It was the most logical guess, since stray spellfire always dissipated after travelling for less than a foot.

The hall was already well populated. It appeared that the Squad training was heavily student-directed, as all but one of the referees (in old Professor Flitwick) were pupils themselves. Merrythought led them straight to a long, rectangular platform near one of the pentagonal room's edges, which bore a number of markings along the top.

"No drills today, Coach?" asked Susan, staring at Harry.

Merrythought shook her head. "We won't be needing any warm-ups for this," she said, patting the platform. "Up you go, then! Stand at - ah - sixteen. Yes, that should do it."

Harry drew his wand after vaulting onto the platform, closely examining the length of holly.

_I know you've been looking forward to this, _Harry thought, _I __can _feel _it_._ We're not going to have any trouble, are we? _Harry wasn't expecting a response.

The wand evidently read his mind.

_"Wouldn't dream of it," _it breathed back, sending a warm pulse to Harry's left palm.

"We all ready there, Potter?" Merrythought called to him.

He nodded firmly, looking up at Susan. Her eyes were fixated on his, still narrowed.

"Now if I was a betting witch," said Merrythought mirthfully, 'I'd bet a good sack of Sickles that you've both practised the Disarming Charm before.'

They both gave the affirmative.

Harry wasn't surprised. During Club sessions, Susan moved as if she had practised for some time - more so than Draco _or_ Neville.

Merrythought cackled. "Lovely! Well, today we'll go about mastering it. Can't do that without a partner now, can we?" she added, looking pointedly at Harry.

"I only want to see two things today - Disarming and Parrying. No footwork, no Jinxes! You keep those feet planted where they are. Remember not to snap before the spiral when Disarming. If you've looked ahead, I know it's tempting, but trust me - you _can't _handle the force yet.

"Okay then, on my count! One - two- "

_"Expelli- "  
_

_"P-propulso!" _

Harry barely deflected the rosy pulse of light. His wand was very nearly wrenched from his grasp.

"A little hasty there, Bones," said Merrythought from the side of her mouth. "Let's try that again. One- "

_"Expe- "  
_

_"PROPULSO! _What are you playing at, Bones?"

Merrythought exhaled. "Bones, you're choosing the wrong day... I've got a dozen other pairs to train in the next two hours. Don't try me."

Susan clenched her jaw, falling back into her ready stance. It was becoming increasingly evident to Harry that she shared more than House colours with the likes of Smith.

"Let's get it right, eh? Last time... One - two - three - FIRE!"

Harry beat her to the punch this time.

_"Expel- "  
_

_"Propulso!" _

They traded spells for a good while, long after Merrythought had drifted off to help the other duellists. Hornby, the fourth-year Ravenclaw from their Club sessions, graciously left his own practising to take her place.

They were evenly matched in the beginning, but Harry eventually tallied a winning streak of three rounds as he became more familiar with the spell. He could feel Susan becoming increasingly incensed with him as well, if the volume of her incantations (and their strength, to boot) was any indication.

"Okay guys, next one before the break I think," said Hornby after yet another rally.

''Try to keep up this time, eh Susie?" Harry said with a wry grin. The Hufflepuff glowered in response.

He wasn't sure why he said it, but it felt _good_.

"On my count... One - two - three - fire!"

_''Ex- "  
_

_"Propulso!" _Harry hissed as he deflected the Charm to his right, delivering one of his own before Susan could react appropriately. Instead, she ducked the pulse of bright pink light before slipping into standard Drive stance.

"Time!" shouted Hornby. The rules of their practice was made clear. No footwork under any circumstances.

Susan apparently had other ideas, as she sent a hasty _"Pulto!" _in Harry's direction who, with no time to Parry it, had to duck and roll as well.

"_Time, _for Wild's sake!" screamed Hornby. "What is _wrong_ with you lot?"

"Look, I'm done for now," said Harry, sheathing his wand and raising his hands in defeat as he turned to leave the platform. He had hoped that Susan would leave her House's grievances firmly outside of the Studios, but in hindsight, he reckoned that he might have been asking for too much.

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_

As soon as the words reached his ears, Harry found his arms and legs by their sides, his forehead meeting the floor with a _thud_.

* * *

Harry's Saturday detention with Professor McGonagall passed relatively quickly, which was partly attributed to his excitement for the Samhain festival. After forcing himself to read more about the modern setting of the event in the Library, he learned that wizards were not only far less concerned with death than their Muggle counterparts, but arguably welcomed its presence. Adepts of Theurgy claimed to use their bonfires to call upon spirits that hadn't become ghosts, as the holiday marked the exact time when the barrier separating the mortal world and the afterlife was at its thinnest. Even ghosts themselves appeared slightly more substantial; Nearly Headless Nick actually managed to knock Harry down as he floated through the grounds yesterday evening.

Although, the thoughts plaguing Harry's mind above all concerned the aftermath of his sparring session with Susan Bones the other day.

_"What's your beef, Susan?" Harry hissed at the red-haired witch as they waited for Hornby to come down from the Headmaster's office. "She gave us two rules - _two rules!_"_

_Susan scoffed at him, eyes front. "I'll start playing by the rules when you do."_

_Harry's brow furrowed. "What are- "  
_

_"Don't play the fool," she said icily. "No one gets _that_ good _that _quickly, Potter. How do you live with yourself? Your parents - _Neville's _parents - they _died_ fighting the Dark Arts, and here you are, spitting on their graves! First you poison him, then you Imperiused him to make him think it was an accident, then you Hex him all over again- "  
_

_Harry didn't even bother to defend himself, going straight for the jugular instead._

_"Well _you _Cursed me, Bones. What does that make you?"_

_Susan's head made a sharp turn as she stared at him, her eyes ablaze._

_"Your Healer, Potter," she whispered, making Harry's blood run cold. "You're getting a taste of your own medicine."_

_A few moments passed before she repeated herself, almost defensively._

_"I'll play by the rules when you do the same."_

Which was never, if Harry considered the Hufflepuff's thought process. That House was ready to believe anything about him, it seemed. He wouldn't have given it much thought, but Merrythought had paired them for the forseeable future. If they were ever called on to play Doubles, Harry was decidedly not looking forward to playing Susan's sacrificial lamb.

"Delightful weather for a festival, I would think," said Professor McGonagall as she peered out of the office window.

_You're telling me._

McGonagall sighed as she ambled back to her desk, looking up at the five-handed wooden clock near the ceiling.

"I think we'll call that 'time', Mr Potter," she said, glancing back at him. "Are you quite finished?"

_I will not gallop through the halls like a half-starved centaur._

Done.

"Four hundred and twenty, Professor," Harry replied through a yawn, launching from his seat with great effort to hand McGonagall his lines.

She adjusted her square glasses as she inspected the parchment, nodding in satisfaction before she drew her wand.

"Very good," she said, "_Diffindo._"

Harry's eyes bulged as the parchment was shredded to pieces.

"I assume that you have learned your lesson now, Mr Potter?"

Harry gulped, inclining his head.

"I would look forward to not spending any more of our Saturday mornings together," she said, "but I suppose I know better."

McGonagall bore the slightest hint of a smile as she peered down at him.

"I'll try my best Professor," he answered, smiling in kind.

Her mouth twisted further in amusement. "See that you do."

Not wanting to waste any more time, Harry gave the witch a short bow and carefully walked to the door as quickly as possible.

The instant he reached the threshold, McGonagall cleared her throat. "Mr Potter?"

Harry's shoulders slumped as he swivelled around. "Yes, Professor?"

"The Headmaster informed me of your altercation with Miss Bones," she said, her face neutral.

"Er, yeah- "

"Spare me, Potter," she interjected, silencing him with a raised hand.

"Members of Gryffindor House have always taken pride in defending themselves and others to the best of their abilities. I am most pleased to hear how you handled the situation. Honourable to a fault. Your parents would have been proud."

Harry could feel his cheeks flushing with heat. In all honesty, he did feel some guilt: he did provoke Susan, to be fair.

"It was nothing, Professor," he said bashfully, looking back at the clock.

"_Nothing?_" she mouthed, her lips white. "She Cursed you, Potter!"

"It was just a Body-Bind- "

"It was an unprovoked _Curse, _Mr Potter," McGonagall reiterated, her eyes strained. "We do not tolerate such behaviour, nor such _frivolous_ use of Dark magic here at Hogwarts."

Harry was floored. When people talked about the Dark Arts, he generally imagined wild-eyed warlocks in tattered dark cloaks, raising zombies from the ground and turning people to ash. Is _this_ what Susan was trying to get at? It all came flooding back to him, when the others cheered him on after his duel with Neville:

_"Nice one, Harry!"_

_"That's our little Dark Lord!"_

But everyone used the same Hexes at the Duelling Club... Merrythought had taught them how, hadn't she?

"Miss Bones was almost suspended, Potter. She was lucky to have retained her place on the Squad! Do you understand the gravity of this situation?"

McGonagall's words were falling on deaf ears. All that Harry could hear at that point were the echoes of Susan's scathing words.

_"No one gets that good that quickly... here you are, spitting on their graves!_

_"I'll play by the rules when you do the same."_

* * *

The sun was already setting by the time Harry approached the vast sloping lawns on the School grounds. Thoughts of his detention with McGonagall and the argument with Susan still plagued his mind, but he tried his best to ingore them as he set out to enjoy the evening at the very least.

The view from above was almost unrecognisable; circles of pupils, staff and spirits alike were dotted along the grass, huddled around budding bonfires as they laughed over tankards of Butterbeer and pumpkin juice. Faintly glowing streamers - carried by fairies - illuminated the paths down to the Lake, each one culminating in a stall selling a variety of flags, toys and snacks. The message was clear: British wizards, at the very least, had mostly relegated the solemn, spiritual meaning of Samhain to the previous Wednesday Memorial, opting instead to let their hair and hats down on the true eve of the dead.

Who was he to blame them?

" 'Arra-ay!" a voice behind him cried as Harry was suddenly smothered from behind.

"What the- "

"_Ron_, get off of him this instant!"

Harry pivoted around to find a defeated-looking Hermione, who seemed torn between acting cilivised and tearing away the source of crushing weight from Harry's back.

The load soon lifted itself, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he fought to breathe.

" 'preciate the greeting," he heaved. "Quite upbeat today, aren't you?"

Ron smirked in return, apparently pleased with himself as he wobbled on the spot.

Hermione caressed her temples. "Fred or George must have put something in his pumpkin juice," she muttered, "I'm sure of it."

Ron clumsily grasped at thin air as he tilted his head to the side.

"Nah, 'sall good," he slurred, "I'm 'avin a - urr, wai' sec."

The gangly redhead climbed the last stretch of the hill above them, achieving a grand total of seven steps before he emptied his contents in the tall grass.

"The twins are bastards, eh?" Harry remarked as they listened to him retch. Hermione grimaced.

After standing vigil by Ron as they waited for him to gradually (and painfully, it sounded) recover, the duo reluctantly carried him down to the Bavarian stand. His nose had discovered the aroma of nearby sausages, and refused to concede defeat.

They perched on a hollow log nearby to eat their ten-Knut hot dogs. Naturally, Ron's had disappeared, and he was eyeing Harry's bun with a wolfish stare.

"Sorry to hear about your uncle, by the way," said Harry, his eyes warily meeting Ron's.

Ron shook his head.

"No worries," he replied with a faraway look, "hardly knew him. It's _rotten_, obviously, he was sound enough... I mean, he was at all the gatherings, but those weren't for the kids, you know?"

Harry didn't know, as he had no memories of being visited by family members, but he nodded all the same.

"Mum and Dad are pretty cut up, though," said Ron quietly. "Hardly spoke a sentence the whole week, Mum did. She was set on not letting us come back, strangely, 'specially Hermione."

The trio fell silent as Ron and Hermione shared a look. Harry frowned, but swiftly quelled his curiosity. Mysterious murder or no, it wasn't for him to know.

"Oh!" Ron said suddenly, startling both Harry and Hermione as he flew from his seat.

_Wasn't he sick ten minutes ago?_

"I almost forgot," he said distractedly as he fiddled through his robe pockets. "Found this back at the Burrow."

He handed a thin, square package to Harry, who readily accepted it - even though he had no idea what it was. It looked like there was a picture and some writing on the face at some stage, but both had begun to fade a long time ago.

Hermione's eyes widened in apparent realisation as she laughed.

"You _can _open it, Harry," she said teasingly.

He gently peeled back the tab at the top of the package, turning it upside down to carefully jostle the contents out of their casing. Soon enough, a thick, dark metallic disc marked by dozens of concentric ridges rolled into his hand. As he flipped it over, he found that the other side was covered by a yellowing sticker, upon which a considerably more legible set of text read:

_POTTER &amp; BLACK_

_Barmy Jim/The Grim Highlights_, _1975/6_

_dir. R. J Lupin_

"I... " Harry started, dumbstruck. "My... Dad's, is it?"

"It's a rare find," said Ron, grinning, "one of the first Visuals ever made, mate! Bill picked it up years ago at a Hogwarts clearout sale, gave it to Fred and George - they're mad about your dad, you know.'

"I've been told," said Harry with a short laugh. "But isn't this theirs?"

Ron winked at him. "Think of it as an heirloom of sorts. Besides, with you making the Squad and all... "

Harry truly appreciated the gesture. His birth parents drew their last breaths eleven years ago today, on the day of the dead. Even then, he had been in two minds about joining the celebrations, but Ron and Hermione's gift, for some reason, assured him that he was right where he belonged.

"Thanks guys," said Harry, smiling at the pair as he gingerly replaced the disc before pocketing it. "Shame I don't know how to use it, though."

Ron gave him a blank stare as Hermione laughed again, proceeding to explain to Harry how Wizarding Wirelesses and Visual records worked.

"You're unbelievable, mate," said Ron, his eyes wandering back to Harry's as-of-yet uneaten hot dog. Harry was about to tell him to get his own, before yet another shout grabbed his attention.

"Ay, _'Arry!_"

His head spun round to find an excited Seamus tumbling past a bonfire of older Hufflepuffs, crying as he smashed head-first into a _very _tangible Fat Friar.

"You must be more careful_, _my child!" the Friar exclaimed, patting the head of Seamus' prone form as his fellow Gryffindors rushed over to assess the damage.

" 'Arry," he rasped as they helped him up.

"I'm here, mate," Harry half-laughed. "Where's the fire?"

Seamus gave him a look. "I thought _you_ were bringing it, genius!"

Harry chuckled, scratching his head. "Oh yeah," he said, smiling apologetically, "lead the way!"

Not for the first time in his short Hogwarts career, Harry slightly regretted one of his more whimsical decisions. When Seamus first mentioned the bonfire, Harry assumed it would be a laid-back affair between dorm mates. Being Harry, he assumed wrong.

Apparently, his very sociable friend saw fit to invite half of the first-year Gryffindor _and _Slytherin contingent - including Greengrass, much to Harry's dismay. How Semaus managed to convince Draco, after the cabbage patch incident of all things, was beyond Harry's level of understanding.

"Aha, the wizard of the hour!" hollered Blaise, beckoning Harry over to his portion of the near twenty-strong circle. "We thought Bones had finally offed you, Harry!"

"Hurry up!" said Parvati, bouncing on her heels impatiently. "Light the fire already!"

Harry glanced over at Seamus. "You brought all these people," he said, "and not one of them knows the Fire Charm?"

"We aren't supposed to learn it until after Yule, Har- "

Harry stared at his bushy-haired friend. "Really, Hermione?"

She smiled. "Just light the blasted thing, already."

Harry shook his head as he entered the centre of the circle, crouching down in front of the mound of timber and charcoal.

_Let's try not to bollocks this up, _he thought as he began to focus on building an Icon.

"It's always important to have a Jumpspark around, Father says," he heard Draco blather loudly to someone. "You never know when you'll- "

"Draco," called Harry, irritated, "do you mind?"

He focused on the mound once more, trying his best to tune out the surrounding distractions.

_Spark p, Spark p... sizzling wizlets, snap, crackle pop... _

Harry giggled as he recited his Icon; no doubt the others thought he was mental by now.

_Don't fail me now, _he prayed as he tightly gripped his wand.

"_Incendio_," he intoned, widening the bulbous shape of the motion before splitting it down the middle.

A tiny spark of orange light spat from the tip of his wand, setting the charcoal alight. Soon after, a small gout of flame rose from the embers, expanding as it ascended above his head. Harry slowly rose to his full height, keeping his wand and gaze trained on the inflating fireball as he repeated the motion. Nothing else existed, _could _exist, even, until he was finished.

The rising flames licked at each other as they writhed and morphed, the now beach ball-sized globe flattening at the poles. Harry took a deep breath; nearly satisfied with his work, he softly sliced his wand thrice, as if he were peeling back the flames themselves.

He took a step back to admire it. It wasn't perfect - the face wasn't as striking since the flames were on the thin side - but Harry believed that he had produced a reasonably passable Jack-o'-Lantern.

"_Fiendfyre!_" Draco gasped, pointing wildly at the flaming pumpkin.

"Give it a rest, Malfoy," Dean said, snorting as the paling wizard gawked at Harry. "You heard him say the spell!"

Hermione beamed next to him. "That's _some _piece of wandwork, Harry."

Harry smiled wryly in return. "I'm not done yet," he said as he held his wand aloft yet again.

_Nice work, _he thought to his wand, _let's bring it home._

"What do you mean, you're not- "

_"Colovaria... fulgo ceraso... fulgo asteriae... fulgo beryllo... fulgo croceo... "  
_

As he ran through the motion of the Colour Change Charm five times over, the fiery Jack 'o Lantern gleamed red, blue, green and finally yellow, flickering between the selection as Harry lifted his wand.

The first-years whooped and whistled as they regarded the bonfire. Harry's sleepless nights were a success.

"Reckon it might hold for an _hour, _you know," he mused.

Hermione's eyes bored into his skull as he looked back at her.

Harry exhaled. "_Dazzling Hues, _Herm_\- '_

"I know," she said, eyes wide. "It never said anything about Charming magicked flames, though."

"Did it have to?"

Hermione stared at him, eyelids drawn as he made a goofy grin.

"I'll show you my notes," he said, sighing dramatically as Hermione finally cracked a smile.

"Right then," chirped Seamus, holding a brightly coloured box, "who's up for a game o' Sink or Spill?"

The circle erupted in _oohs _and _ahhs _as Harry and Hermione sat down in between Ron and Parvati.

"What's Sink or Spill?" asked Fay Dunbar, crossing her legs as she leaned in.

"You get your used Mini Filibuster's," said Seamus, pulling out a stick from the box, 'and dip 'em in water. If it's a dud, you get to pass. But if it blows then you gotta 'spill'- "

"Or forfeit," Ron added.

"We're not doing forfeits Weasley," moaned Draco, "we'll be here all night!"

"We've _got _all night," countered Lavender, smirking at him. "No one's taking a forfeit over a little dirty secret, anyway."

Greengrass muttered something to Parkinson as they looked at Lavender, sniggering all the while. Tracey's eyes were fixed on the House-coloured flames, however.

Not that Harry noticed.

"Just start us off, Seamus," said Dean dully. "Pick it up as we go along, eh?"

Seamus nodded, hopping off to the Lake. He returned just a minute later, lugging a tall, cast-iron pitcher of water.

"Right," he grunted, plopping next to Dean and placing the the tankard down.

_"Sink or Spill, Doc?"_

He dropped one of the fireworks into the tankard, crossing his fingers as he chewed his lip in anticipation. The pitcher sizzled... and sizzled... and sizzled...

Harry thought Seamus was going to lay an egg where he sat.

The sizzling ceased, and Seamus collapsed with a pitiful cry.

"Leave it out, Finnigan!" jeered Nott from the other end of the circle.

The first-years giggled as Seamus shoved the pitcher to Parvati, who followed the routine.

In a few short minutes, Harry learned quite a few things about his classmates, including the fact that Parkinson choked on a Gobstone last summer, that Bhupen Shastri's mother made him model her dress robes (who knows why he admitted to that) and that Ron was banned from entering _Quality Quidditch Supplies, _though he found it hard to believe that the he heroically won a fistfight against the shop manager. Nevertheless, it was entertaining all the same.

The pitcher soon found its way to Draco, who yanked it from Lavender with the utmost confidence.

"_Sink or Spill, Doctor?" _he asked the receptacle, sneering as he offered his tribute.

The firework exploded almost immediately, barely touching the surface of the water before it spirited away into the burgeoning night sky.

Seamus guffawed. "Come on Malfoy, Spill it or lick it!"

"That's _foul,_" spat Greengrass, who looked as if someone had flicked Troll bogies in her pumpkin juice.

Malfoy winced as he peered at the pitcher for a while. The circle was eerily silent as they huddled together, every participant on tenterhooks while they awaited Draco's next move.

"Fine," he said, sulking. "I forfeit."

Seamus and Dean promptly leapt to their feet, linking arms as they did a little dance.

"You set me up!" Draco shouted, fuming amidst the laughs of the circle. "I demand a re-dip!"

"Piss off, Malfoy," said Seamus as he scanned the group of first-years. "All righty - I say Malfoy snogs 'Ermione. Everyone in agreement say 'I'."

Harry was astounded by how many resounding 'I's trailed the circle. Less shockingly, Hermione was deathly silent, Ron turning pale as he stole a glance at her.

"Like I'm going to kiss a Mudblood!" Draco scoffed, crossing his arms.

The air grew thick as silence permeated even the bonfire itself. Daring to glimpse at his left, Harry saw Hermione's eyes glisten as they reflected the four-coloured flames ahead.

"I'll save you the trouble," she said firmly as she stood up, tightly clutching her cloak as she stalked off in the direction of the Castle.

The circle _oohs _returned with a vengeance.

"You _are _a tosser," Ron said in disgust, "you know that?"

"What?" Draco blustered, spreading out his arms as if offended. "My father would crucify me!"

The rest of the Gryffindors appeared to agree with Ron as they scowled at the blond Slytherin. At the other extreme, Greengrass was giggling herself to death.

This was ridiculous; he had been tolerable of late, but Draco went too far this time. Harry had to go after her.

As he made to leave, he felt Ron's long fingers grip the sleeve of his robe, but he broke free with little resistance. Hot on Hermione's trail as he meandered between the other bonfires, Harry ignored the taunts of "you get 'er, Potter!" from Nott in his wake, determined to check on his friend.

* * *

The celestial chorus was in full bloom as Harry reached the summit of the lawns, further illuminating the grounds where the fairies chose not to tread. He was certain that Hermione had backtracked towards the tall grass where they began the evening, and was not disappointed when he spotted the hunched, slightly stirring form of the bushy-haired witch as she perched against a willow tree.

"Hermione?" he called out to her as he edged closer. "Mind if I join you?"

She didn't reply, so Harry continued forward until he reached the tree trunk, squatting next to her.

It was a painfully awkward silence, and Harry was guilty though glad that Hermione chose to break it.

"Thought Ron would have stopped you," she said hoarsely as she turned to him, brows slightly furrowed.

It was dark, but Harry could faintly make out puffy splotches under her eyes.

"He did," Harry said, his voice tinged with mild surprise. "You two seem pretty close for a year of knowing each other."

He immediately bit his tongue after he said it, but Hermione chuckled thickly.

"Yes," she sniffed, "you'd think so, wouldn't you? Ron's... he's about a lot more than he lets on... "

Harry wasn't sure how to respond, but he was visited by a stray thought of Ron's great-uncle. Perhaps he was closer to the Wizard Prewett than he had suggested earlier?

"I assumed that this would be _you _today," she said suddenly, "that I'd be the one looking for you. No offence."

Harry shrugged. "It's no bother," he replied.

They fell quiet again, but Hermione seemed content to admire the scenery above and below.

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said after some time.

Her head perked up as she regarded him.

"You and Ron's gift," he clarified, "it's _massive_. Aside from the whole duelling thing."

Hermione tilted her head. "How so?"

"I can't- " Harry started, but laughed as he turned to her.

Her eyes flashed bright with intrigue, and her shrewd smile appeared almost challenging. Hermione wasn't going to drop this subject, even if it _was_ irrational.

"Okay," he said, sighing in defeat. "It gave me... I don't know how to say this without sounding lame."

"Just say it," she urged him.

He sucked in a breath. "It's like... I didn't know what to do with this day, really. Yeah, I planned the fire and everything, but that was just a fun project. I honestly had no idea how to celebrate today. How to... celebrate _them, _you know?"

Harry gazed at the moon as he paused in reflection. Hermione made no noise, but he felt as if she understood.

"I still don't, you know, since I never met them... but I'm here. They left me _this. _Am I making sense?"

"Not really."

Harry let out a hearty laugh as he swatted Hermione's shoulder.

"I do agree with you though," she said wistfully, "about not knowing how to celebrate today. The first Samhain I had was a month after my... "

Harry grimaced.

"I said that this year's would decide everything," she continued, her voice cracking as she picked at a loose thread from her cloak. "That I would learn the customs, sing the songs, play the games... just get involved. I wanted to join the Historian's Hunt. Do you know what they said?"

Harry shook his head, dreading the answer. Did he _want _to know?

" 'Oh, you just won't get it, dear,' " she said, imitating the voice of whom Harry assumed to be a very old History teacher. " 'You've got different roots!' "

"And there you have it," her voice was trembling now. "I can wear the robes, read the books, cast the sigils... but it's not enough, is it Harry?"

_Draco is such a bastard._

Harry hung his head in shame, honestly at a loss of how to comfort Hermione as she shed bitter tears.

"It's not enough," she echoed, choking back a sob. "I'm just too _Muggle _to get it, I guess."

She spat out the word as if it were poison from the Dungeons.

"They'll never let me forget, Harry. They were the ones who took me, but they'll _never _let me forget."

She looked at him intently, her eyes resembling those of a cornered animal.

"Maybe I don't _want _to forget."

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Once again, thanks for reading, and for the reviews to the last chapter - namely from _teachergirl _and _Son of Whitebeard_ \- they were much appreciated, and your comments have been taken on board. While this is an AU, please hit me up by PM if you do think something specific is glaringly bereft of an explanation - it might have been an honest mistake, rather than a deliberate omission. Once again, thanks for reading! All comments are welcomed and encouraged


	11. Daphne Goes For Gold

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Hermione takes a break, Neville has some news, and Dean does some DIY.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven - Daphne Goes For Gold**

The Artificing Wing, not dissimilar to workstations in other departments at Hogwarts, was far from off-limits outside of regular teaching hours. While most pupils savoured their weekends in idle luxury, free from the arduous task that reading magic often was, the doors of the Castle's classrooms were always open to students who wished to go above and beyond in their pursuit of arcane wisdom (before curfew, of course).

Naturally, Hermione was one such student. Although the department's coveted Sigil Sanders were unavailable to her without the guidance of a tutor, she could more than make do with her own kit. Mr Weasley was, among other great things, a patient and inspiring teacher, and he had imparted more than a few vital nuggets of wisdom while she watched over his shoulder in the tiny, makeshift workshop at the back of the Burrow. It was less often than they both would have preferred, however, due to his demanding work schedule.

Nevertheless, she took an immediate liking to the discipline. Scripts and cardinals were laid bare for Hermione to grasp and manipulate, making for a far more mechanical and straightforward pursuit when compared to her Sorcery lessons which, much to her occasional frustration, appeared to be almost as reliant on the Headmaster's flavour-of-the-week idioms as they were on actually understanding a formula. Not to mention that its results were said to be far more consistent - and more durable - than even the most 'superbly performed' of spells according to _The Humble Craftsman, _which she had borrowed at Mr Watts' recommendation.

And so, it was here that Hermione would spend her self-imposed weekend exile following the Samhain festival. She didn't regret storming off when she had, but more than a few of those present would have misinterpreted the action. Lavender definitely would, and she dreaded having to endure Fay and Parvati's inevitable pity party.

Typically, Hermione would have risen above Malfoy's petty name-calling, but it was the last straw of several infuriating occurrences that week: her informal rejection from participating in the Historians' Hunt; that insufferable Muriel woman's remarks ('Hogwarts will be so _good _for you, dear'); the pointed looks everyone gave her when they talked about everything their 'Uncle Iggy' did for Muggle-borns in the courtrooms...

She could tell that Ron cared; he never fumbled to make excuses for the world that he justly loved - not that he was one for many words. Harry seemed to as well, and he could even relate. But wherever he went, Neville would follow.

Ergo, Malfoy.

No, she would rather stay on her lonesome. As much as some wizards liked to think that magic was sentient, _it _hadn't shunned her yet.

"Oh, shi- _Christ!_"

The sudden commotion of trays and tools clattering to the floor behind her made Hermione jerk in surprise; only a split-second lifting of her brush prevented her from melting the steel sheet on the table. Grasping her lantern, she squinted into the relative darkness to locate the source of the high-pitched cry.

She didn't have to look long before the lamplight flashed past a feebly waving hand in the distance.

"It's me, sorry!" the high-pitched voice said.

"Wh-who's 'me'?" asked Hermione, tensing in anticipation of an attack.

She heard the voice grunt in effort, soon followed by faint rustling sounds amongst the fallen equipment.

"_Lumos,_" it whispered, bathing the far corner of the workshop in a cool, pale blue light.

Hermione recognised the caster as a Ravenclaw witch from her year. Lisa Turpin certainly wasn't the last person that she would expect to see lurking the classrooms during the weekend, but being in the dark, her behaviour was suspect all the same.

"Um, hi Hermione," she said, chewing the bottom of her lip, swaying awkwardly on the spot.

Hermione withdrew a breath, leaving her lantern at the table as she strode over to the timid girl.

"You could have lit the torchlight, you know," she said, bending down to clear away the mess.

Lisa made a muffled noise as she joined her, pointing her wand-light at the floor. "I didn't want to disturb you... sorry, I guess."

"Were you looking for something?" asked Hermione. "You _should_ have used the torchlight. It's Health and Safety, Lisa."

"I _know_," she replied, wincing. "I said I was sorry, please don't tell on me! It's just that you looked so busy, and- "

Hermione nodded, rolling her eyes. "Yes, okay, forget about it," she said quickly, re-arranging the tools as she placed them into a dusty iron tray. "Why are you here, then?"

Lisa didn't respond, casting a furtive glance at Hermione's workstation.

"Why_,_ Lisa?"

Lisa winced again, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear.

"I, um," she said in a small voice. "I w-wanted to watch."

Hermione frowned at Lisa, following her wandering eyes to the lamp-lit sheet of steel at the back.

"It's just," said Lisa, looking as if she was about to burst. "Ah, Christ... you're _brilliant_, Hermione! Watts gives us all these crazy assignments and you just breeze through them like you're bloody Rowena or something!"

Hermione sighed as she trudged back to her desk, Lisa following her.

"You have to actually like Artificing, Lisa," said Hermione, fixing her magnifying glass in place.

Lisa groaned. "But I _do _like it," she said, resting her chin on crossed arms as she gazed at the shining steel. "It's just really, really hard. Then I... I look at you in class, and I think to myself: how is _she _doing it? Why does she get it all and I- "

Hermione's eyes narrowed as she turned to the Ravenclaw. "Excuse me?" she whispered.

_Again, _she thought to herself. _Why can't they just leave me alone?_

Lisa clutched her hair as she folded in on herself, a frustrated groan escaping her lips.

"Sorry... _sorrysorrysorry..." _she said, contrite eyes eventually meeting Hermione's. "It's... ah... look, Hermione. Whether you think so or not, it's the hardest class we have! Even Potioneering makes more sense, and I've got Mr Mintoil!"

Hermione fought to hide a laugh despite herself, but failed miserably.

She had heard of Mr Mintoil's exploits through snippets of Library hearsay. Even if they were exaggerated, she would feel uneasy learning from a teacher who once confused newt spit with newt... waste."

"How is he even _teaching _here?" said Hermione as they giggled together. "But seriously, Lisa, it's not the hardest by a long shot! Have _you_ mastered the Softening Charm yet?"

Lisa reluctantly shook her head. "But Hermione," she said, a little more boldly, "that's mastering it. With this stuff, there's no progress - it just works or it doesn't, if you don't blow it up first... I just want to see how _you _do it."

Hermione looked her in the eye. Lisa appeared genuine; she had never seen anyone else show so much enthusiasm for the class. Harry, who sat next to her, was usually too busy being worried that he might make a mistake. Blaise Zabini, who apparently understood at least as much as she did according to his test scores, spent more time chatting with Seamus about "Sabre Frogs" or something to actually get any work done.

If her partner was as heavy-handed as Seamus, she wouldn't want to, either.

Hermione gave the Ravenclaw a weary smile. "Okay then," she said, gesturing at her work-in-progress as Lisa eagerly leaned in.

"Now the first thing you've got to do with something like steel is account for possible impurities, especially if it was Transformed. Planning for contingency is everything... "

* * *

**The Saturn Crier, November 1st 1991**

**RAISING WANDS FOR FALLEN HEROES: A SON'S SOLEMN PROMISE**

**by Minos ABERNATHY**

_Sablestaff Court in York played host to a heart-wrenching ceremony this Wednesday as Memorial rituals were held across the Union. This year's events saw Neville Longbottom - only child of the late Aurors Francis and Alice Longbottom - participate in the Warlock's Starfall alongside family and Ministry officials for the first time._

_Neville, 11, was but a toddler when his parents met their tragic end in the explosive aftermath of the Arezzo Affair, the last of a controversial slew of offshore, preemptive anti-Trishula raids which led to the resignation of Minister Millicent Bagnold eight years ago. Accompanied by his grandmother, the Hon. Madam Augusta Longbottom and his great-uncle Algernon Croaker, Head Unspeakable at the Department of Mysteries, Neville joined scores of Ministry armsmen - both retired and in-service - as they paid their respects to their fallen comrades._

_According to inside sources, his appearance may have been ___specifically _orchestrated to send the public a strong message. Neville is expected to receive the family keys as Baron Longbottom, Chief-wizard of Elmet when he comes of age: is it possible that he also intends to follow in his parents' footsteps as a stalwart wand against the Dark?_

* * *

"That's no reason not to owl 'im, 'Arry. Knight to E5."

"Illegal move, Seamus."

"You what? I've got my papers, pal!"

The Gryffindor boys laughed as they lazed away the rest of their day in the dormitory, following a disappointing Castle-wide quest in search of a Wizarding Wireless. The Library-owned devices were only loaned out to older pupils, and they weren't allowed to go to the nearby village of Hogsmeade until next year. Harry would have bought one by owl post, but he knew better than to attempt it under Professor McGonagall's nose, or worse yet, Mr Pringle's.

The old caretaker was infamous for snatching parcels and stripping down their contents when he was given the chance, and Wirelesses past the common rooms were considered contraband according to regulations in the Hogwarts Almanac. Fred Weasley once swore that Pringle had floating Sneakoscopes surveying the Towers for owls carrying packages. Even though such a source was dubious at the best of times, Fred and his twin brother were consummate makers of mischief. If anyone knew best, they would.

In any event, their last chance lay with Neville, who wasn't due back until Monday. This would give him ample opportunity to smuggle one in through his trunk, but Harry was more than a little hesitant to owl him after reading the weekend newspaper.

"It'll be right deadly havin' a Visual, though," said Seamus, looking up from Ron's wizard's chess set. "Watchin' _Mops On Camera, _you guys see that one? Catch the Quidditch highlights... "

Ron grumbled. "Wish we had one at home," he said bitterly, flicking over a pawn which tried to cut his finger off in retaliation.

Dean made a disbelieving noise as he doodled on the floor.

"You don't have one? Of all people?" he murmured, eyes fixed on his parchment.

"Is that a big deal?" asked Harry, hands behind his head as he stretched out on his four-poster. "Parkinson only got one this year."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah," he said, "for herself, maybe - no way they haven't got one in the living-room. And _her _dad's a chef- "

Seamus corrected him with a finger. "A celebrity chef."

"A chef," Dean said evenly, "but your dad's a Ministry Head, Ron. You can't be hurting for gold."

Ron let out a harsh laugh. "Maybe. But have you seen my house, mate?"

Dean shook his head.

"My Dad builds everything," said Ron, looking him in the eye. "_Everything. _If it's new, he'll take it apart. Mum says they're too distracting anyway, and she's got the last word."

"So you owlin' Neville or nah?" Seamus asked Harry.

"Why me?"

"You're the one with the owl!" the other boys chorused for the seventh time that afternoon.

"Plus you're the new owner of the lost 'Barmy' record," added Dean.

Harry couldn't argue against that. It was, after all, the catalyst for the boys' sudden interest in smuggling a Visual-boarded Wireless into the dormitory. That didn't mean he liked the idea, though. He moaned through gritted teeth as he rolled off of his bed, sifting through his trunk for a spare quill.

"Still think it's in poor taste," he said, grimacing as he snapped the lid shut. "What can I possibly write that won't sound like, 'Hey Neville, hope you're having fun mourning your dead parents. Can we borrow your Wireless real quick?' "

Ron scratched his chin, mulling the sentence over. "Nothing, to be fair."

"Thanks Ron," said Harry, now quite vexed. "You're a great help."

"I think you're looking into it too deeply, mate," said Dean, hurling a cut of parchment to Harry who caught it mid-flight. "Neville knows his parents as well as you know yours. This is his Gran's thing - you've heard how he talks about her."

Harry stuck out his lip in thought. "S'pose. He'd probably like having one here, anyway."

Before he could change his mind yet again, Harry scribbled down the most tactful message that he could, sneaking the request in at the end as a 'funny thought'. Whether Neville would pick up on it was yet to be seen, but if worse came to worst, Harry reasoned that he could always wait for the holidays which were, in all fairness, just around the corner.

As his thoughts returned to the prospect of seeing his birth father in action, Harry breezed through the tower at full steam. Besides Toothill's picture, it would be the first piece of insight he would get into James Potter's very short life.

He didn't even realise that he had run straight into another student until he was on the hard stone floor, his back aching from the impact.

A pair of hands suddenly pulled him up by the neck of his robes. Harry glimpsed a flash of yellow-and-black trim, and ducked his head immediately: he was in a pleasant mood, and getting Cursed again would have been a waste of a good day, as far as he was concerned.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, waving off the faceless pupil as he went about his way.

"Potter," a voice called back, reproachful. "Slow your roll!" He slowly turned around, shoulders tense as he regarded the Hufflepuff.

A pair of cheerful hazel eyes glinted back at him. She was pink-faced, around the same height as Harry, and wore her blond hair in two long pigtails.

The Hufflepuff stuck out an expectant hand. "Hannah," she said, grinning.

Harry cautiously shook the proffered hand, eyeing it with more than a little suspicion. "Thanks," he mumbled, avoiding the witch's gaze.

She nodded tightly, deflating somewhat. "Running's against the rules for a reason, just so you know," she said, giving him a dour look.

Harry coughed a nervous laugh. "So I've been told. Sorry."

He felt a twinge of shame for rebuffing her politeness; that a Hufflepuff was even willing to lift him from the floor was a blessing in itself, he thought. As she turned to leave, Harry succumbed to the urge to call out.

"Hannah!" She whirled around, frowning back at him.

Harry coughed, his eyes flitting between her face and his shoes. "Um, do you have a minute?"

_"This should be fun," _said his wand, sniggering. Harry ignored it for the time being.

"Do I - seem - ahm... " Harry trailed off as he idly fingered the envelope in his robe pocket.

"What?" demanded Hannah, crossing her arms.

"Do you, you know - think I'm _Dark_? Honestly?"

Hannah's frown receded slightly. "Do you think you are?"

"No!" he said straight away, and a little more forcefully than he had meant to. Hannah raised an eyebrow.

"It doesn't really matter what _I _think, does it?' groused Harry, clenching his jaw.

"I guess not," Hannah replied with a resigned smile. "But I'm all ears. Where you off to?"

"Sending a letter. Why?"

Hannah strode past him, clapping him firmly on the shoulder.

"Walk and talk, Potter," she said, "walk and talk!"

He thought it a tad strange that Hannah was going out of her way to help him, but Harry decided not to pry. Even so, as the helpful Hufflepuff proceeded to lecture him on her House's hypersensitivity to Dark-leaning practices along the way, Harry found himself even more confused than he was when arguing with Susan - which was saying something.

"But that _can't _be right," he said as they climbed the jagged stone steps to the Owlery. "Merrythought taught us those spells! She wouldn't have if- "

"Ugh," grunted Hannah, clasping her brow. "If you would listen to me, maybe... Anyway, it doesn't come out of nowhere. Even the most minor of Jinxes have Dark-ish vibes. It's in our textbooks - _you _should know that."

There was no use playing dumb, Harry conceded. _Curses and Counter-Curses _was always near the top of his trunk, after all.

"All right, but- "

"They aren't illegal," she said, staring back at Harry from the top of the stairs. "Most people don't mind most Dark Arts. But Susan and her family aren't 'most people'. Most Hufflepuffs aren't 'most people'... "

Harry pursed his lips in thought.

"Okay," he said, brushing past the girl in search of Hedwig. "So what does that have to do with me? Why not Neville? Or Draco? Or, I don't know - Susan _herself? _She knows the Pounder as well as I do!"

Hannah threw her hands up in the air. 'Because!' she said irritably. "It fits, doesn't it? How could someone - who gets spells _so_ easily - accidentally poison a classmate the next day? You tell me, Harry."

Harry gave her an incredulous look. "Did you hear yourself there, Hannah? They're two completely different things!"

"Whatever," she said with a loose hand-wave. "Take all of that into account, and the fact that you apparently _Hexed _Neville pretty damn good the other week, and there you have it!"

"Well if that's how you feel- "

"That's _not _how I feel," Hannah said firmly as she levelled a finger at Harry. "I wouldn't be wasting my time here if it was."

"Why are you even wasting your time, then?" he asked.

Hannah let out a derisive snort. "Obviously no one else is, are they?" she said. "Well - for one, you're a first-year. A Dark apprentice? Seriously?"

"Point taken."

"Second of all, and most importantly," her voice deepened as she spoke, "is that I know Neville. He wouldn't lie for someone he'd only just met."

"You _know_ him?" asked Harry. He couldn't recall Neville ever mentioning a Hannah.

_Susan, yes, but-_

"Yeah, well... " she replied, her eyes darting around the dropping-covered floor. "Just thought someone should tell you. You know - give you a chance not to mess up again."

"Fair play," he said with a small smile. "Cheers, Hannah."

"Don't mention it," she replied, giving him a false salute as she trailed down the stairs. "You're all right, Potter... for a tosser."

* * *

The month of November was filled with promise for the Gryffindor boys. Neville, much to everyone's gratitude, cottoned on to Harry's 'funny thought' and indeed delivered upon his return. Unfortunately, word that the bottom-left dormitory had joined the ranks of those conducting illicit activities in student abodes spread among the first-years like wildfire (likely due to Seamus), and pupils among other Houses were already plotting on how to one-up 'Longbottom and his lot'. A Wireless wasn't the only thing Neville brought back with him, though.

"Forgot to mention, mate," he said casually as they waited for Mrs Plinny to arrive for their Wizarding Studies lesson.

Harry hummed as he picked at a crudely carved mountain troll in his desk.

"My Uncle Algie wants in," Neville whispered with a wink.

Harry looked up at him. "On what?"

"Our bet, Harry?" Neville said slowly, making a weird swishing motion with his hand.

"Really?" asked Harry, his upper lip quirked. "He can't duel someone his own age?"

"Twit," replied Neville, sniggering. "He's saying the winner gets double."

"Is he, now?"

He nodded. "My Uncle reckons you got lucky last time."

"That's nice," said Harry, glancing out of the window. "I'll have to send him a Christmas card."

"But a mate of his is a massive Barmy fan," said Neville, elbowing Harry, "so they're betting against each other _and _paying the winner. We're already on the bookies, Harry - not even on the Circuit, yet!"

Harry chuckled. "Fancy that... "

"Firsties!" a bubbly voice suddenly exclaimed as the classroom door burst open.

Mrs Plinny had arrived.

"_Look alive, Janet, look alive..._" the dark haired, ruddy-faced witch murmured to herself as she bustled past the desks, juggling a large stack of what looked like half-marked assignments in one hand.

"Ever the party, ain't she?" remarked Seamus from behind.

Harry grinned. Wizarding Studies wasn't as action-packed as Sorcery was, but if one thing was for certain, learning about the Broomers' Race or fairy trafficking was never a dull moment with Mrs Plinny.

"Whew... right, class!" she said loudly, clapping her hands. "Sorry I'm late - _again_ \- Professor Younger had the Arrows away game on in the History office. Couldn't resist, obviously- "

"Arrows out!" someone coughed.

"That's another three from Gryffindor, Ronald," Mrs Plinny sang. "Should be more careful, you know - Merlin _knows _the Cannons could use those points right now!"

Everyone laughed as Ron sank into his seat, glowering at the teacher who smirked in return.

"Okay, okay, we've had our fun," she said, her eyes shining with mirth while she fanned her hands to subdue the class. "First lesson of the month, time to get our heads down - so let's dive straight into our new topic, shall we?"

She grabbed a piece of chalk from her desk and made a large, sweeping movement along the board. As she moved out of the way, the class was presented with a solitary question mark. Dean raised his hand.

"Yes, Dean?" asked Mrs Plinny.

"Well Miss," he said, looking puzzled, "I mean - your jokes are always on point, but that one doesn't make any sense."

Mrs Plinny beamed. "And that, my dear Master Taverner," she said cheerfully, "is because there is no joke. _That_ is our new topic."

The room fell quiet. Even Seamus, whose whispers to whoever would listen usually served as Harry's background noise, was silenced by his own bemusement.

"The question mark: a formidable spell in its own right," said Plinny, her smile widening even further. "And what a question it is. Twenty points for the right answer, in fact!"

Harry was on the edge of his seat.

"What is a witch's most powerful weapon?"

Seamus snorted as he raised his hand.

"Seamus?"

"That's well easy, Miss," he said, "a _wand, _obviously."

Harry couldn't fault Seamus' answer, but he doubted that the question would be so simple.

Mrs Plinny evidently agreed. "Next," she called, her pale green eyes scouring the room for her next victim. "Ah, Hermione!"

"Wisdom, Miss," said Hermione. "Our powers come from learning magic, not just using it."

"Close... kind of," replied the elder witch with a slow nod, "but wrong."

Hermione flopped into her seat, bewildered. As was Harry; he had never heard of her answering a question incorrectly.

"Any other takers?" asked Mrs Plinny, her grin returning with full force. "I can wait!"

And she did. More than a minute had passed by the time someone dared to raise a hand again.

"Oh?" Plinny said suddenly, her brow wrinkling as she peered towards the back of the classroom. 'Go ahead then, Daphne!'

The class' heads turned in unison to meet the thoroughly bored-looking Slytherin.

"Secrets, madam," she said, arms folded. "A witch's most powerful weapons are her secrets."

"Bingo," Mrs Plinny replied, smiling brightly. "Twenty points to Slytherin for Miss Greengrass!"

For a fleeting moment, Harry was reminded of Doge's 'invisible' box, allegedly an old family secret.

_How _did _he do that?_

"You bloody what?" blustered Seamus, whirling round on the teacher in disbelief as Draco and Nott cackled in the background.

"Language, Finnigan," said Plinny, shooting the sandy-haired wizard a warning glance. He promptly sat back down.

"A skilled magician with a focus in hand," she eventually said, "is a mighty one indeed. But we mustn't neglect to consider that countless influential, even _dangerous _wizarding figures throughout history would never have cast what we might think of as a spell, let alone with the most crudely carved of rods. Few of us are lucky enough to learn how to properly cast a spell, even in this day and age. It takes time, effort, money... and a knack that some of us just don't have."

Professor Dumbledore had told them more than once that, in his opinion, Sorcery was both the most and least useful magical discipline known to witchkind. Harry had once been unnerved by the Headmaster's words, but now that he was provided with the context, he had to agree.

"So why secrets, then?" asked Mrs Plinny, cocking her head at the question mark on the chalkboard. "Why not wisdom, as our esteemed Miss Granger here argues? Quite rightly, to be fair... "

No one answered.

"Okay, if I put it this way... "

Mrs Plinny turned back to the chalkboard, etching and wiping away for several seconds before she faced the class again, only to be greeted by a round of giggles and jeers. Harry examined the lank-haired, scowling stick figure that she had drawn on the board.

"Is that... "

"_Snape,_" breathed Neville, the corners of his mouth quivering.

"Let's say," Plinny said, "our dear Professor Snape comes up with a really... oh, who cares? It's been ages since I took Potions..."

The students laughed again as she scribbled another figure with wavy, flowing locks on the board.

"But let's just say he comes over to me and says, 'Janet, Janet! You won't believe what I've just come up with!' and it turns out to be an elixir that permanently halts, or even reverses ageing. What do I do - aha! Master Potter to the rescue... ?"

"Copy the recipe, Miss," said Harry, not missing a beat.

Mrs Plinny laughed. "You bet your gold I would," she replied. "That's assuming he'd want to hand it over! But you're right, and that's why the smartest wizards out there know _how to keep a secret. _You all remember the Comet-Cleansweep wars?"

The students murmured their assent.

"Well it goes far deeper than sales, ladies and gents. We're talking about _survival. _Registered magical Beings number almost half a million on these titchy islands, which also happen to be positively teeming with Muggles - over fifty million, as a matter of fact. But how many Muggles have you seen in the past year, Draco?"

The blond Slytherin made a dismissive noise. "None. Why would I?"

"Exactly," said Mrs Plinny triumphantly. "We've been hiding ourselves for so long now, gotten _so _good at it, that the Muggles are almost as hidden from us as we are from them. Think about it. Our little hamlets, villages, even towns... they might house anything between fifty to one thousand of us at a time, yet they still don't find us! The Muggle government do their part, to be fair to them, but how are _we _doing it?

"Now we can talk about the invention of the Killing Curse -" several pupils shuddered at that, "- or even the armies of abominations that the Trishula still holds at its disposal, but we all know how that turned out for the Eastern Republic. One in four dead, class. One in _four_. When you're as outnumbered as we are, that's an inevitable consequence of direct conflict. Wand or no wand. Make no mistake: if Muggles at large knew about us half as well as they do in some parts of the world, we'd have to scatter - there'd be no other choice! But here we are, with our schools, shops and homes still intact. _Why?_"

Again, no one raised a hand.

"Muggle-Repelling Arrays. Expansion Enchantments. _Disillusionment_ Charms. Even the Memory Charm! Not the sudden death spells, but the _secret-keeping _spells."

"But Miss," Neville said, breaking the painful silence that followed. "Aren't you basically saying that Muggles are way stronger than wizards?"

"Not at all, Nev," answered Mrs Plinny with an upturned smile. The concern that marred the faces of her pupils didn't appear to bother her in the slightest. "More dangerous, perhaps... I suppose it depends on the context. But whichever way you slice it, we're protecting Muggles just as much, if not more than we're protecting ourselves."

"And how are we doing that exactly, Miss?" asked Hermione. Her tone implied that the question was more of a challenge than anything else.

Mrs Plinny stared at her for a long while, her face unreadable. At that point, Harry was unsure as to who was more offended between the two of them.

"By staying silent, Miss Granger," Plinny said softly, laying a hand on Hermione's shoulder as she stalked past her desk. "What was once called 'mystery' has now become fantasy in the eyes of Muggles. The existence of magic and, by extension, witches, werewolves, vampires, pixies and dragons, is nothing more than absurd... out there. They would destroy themselves with panic - literally_ -_ if they were to learn otherwise."

* * *

The contents of Mrs Plinny's lecture were just as fresh in Harry's mind late that night. As his dorm mates huddled around Neville's Visual Wireless, he lay prone on his bed, his teacher's flippant allusions to the fragility of both worlds still echoing inside his head. He found it unnerving; despite the potential to learn spells and brew potions which could realise all but his most outlandish fantasies, Harry was still restricted by those who would likely explode if they were to barely touch a wand.

He reflected on his very first meeting with Professor Doge. Wasn't that exactly what the ancient wizard had said? That some among wizardkind were even resentful of Muggles because they hindered the community from freely exercising their powers?

Harry had never felt inhibited at the orphanage. Of course, he was untrained - even more so than now, at the very least. In hindsight, he wouldn't dare imagine Miss Meacham's reaction if he _did _go back after school, caught red-handed as he waved his wand over some helpless tadpole in the garden pond.

"Bleedin- _come on, _you..." said Neville as he pounded the poor device into submission, wresting Harry from his thoughts.

He stared at the wispy electric-blue blob that hovered over the Wireless as it wobbled to the blond Gryffindor's merciless blows.

"Neville, I'm not sure that's how you- "

"Quiet," he barked, "wizard at work here, Potter!"

Before he could land another hit on the Wireless, however, Dean gripped his hand.

"Lemme try something, eh?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Neville grudgingly moved aside as the taller boy withdrew his wand, promptly sticking it into a recess at the back of the brass box.

"My Dad does this all the time," he said, leaning over the Wireless to get a better look. "Must be all the Charms around here... _Refoveo_."

The ethereal blob reacted immediately, writhing and spasming as several indistinct objects popped in and out of view.

"That's maintenance right there," said Seamus, beaming as he gave Dean a high-five.

Ron hopped over, feverishly twiddling at one of the Wireless' many silver dials.

"Come on then," he said, "let's get some info!"

Neville groaned into his hands as the glowing wisps coalesced into a ghostly, unfolding scroll. "Leave it out, Ron... "

_"... for the mid-week Union League scores," _called a warbled voice from the Wireless speakers, _"Appleby one-eighty, Tutshill sixty. Puddlemere ninety, Holyhead one-fifty. Chudley forty, Wimbourne two-hundred- "  
_

"No," wailed Ron, "bloody Caverley! Catch a frigging Snitch, would you?"

"Enough of that," said Dean as he squeezed past Ron to turn the dial. The luminescent scroll promptly faded into the ether. "Harry, where's your record?"

Never one to be unprepared, Harry dived to his trunk to scoop out said relic.

"Right here," he replied, a lump forming in his throat as he handed it over.

"Calm down mate," Dean said with a chuckle. "It's only a Visual."

Harry exhaled. "Y-yeah, I know," he said with a sheepish nod.

Dean stared at him for a moment, but didn't pry further.

"All right..."

He placed the Wireless on his side, partially inserted the record at the top and pulled down a switch on the right. If Harry had been more than a few feet away, he might have mistaken the scene for Dean toasting bread.

That is, until the ghostly blob returned... and remained a blob.

"It's last-generation," Dean said, looking back with a slight grimace. "The enchantments can unravel after a while, so- "

"Nah, it's playing now!" said Neville excitedly, pointing a finger at the box.

He was right; the blob writhed and peeled in every direction, and before long Harry could glean a countdown sequence within the depths of the ethereal blue soup.

_4... 3... 2..._

The dormitory seemed to explode in a brilliant flash of white and blue, causing the boys to gasp and swear in shock. As soon as his vision recovered, Harry had to shield his ears from the sudden cacophony that was expelled from the Wireless' speakers.

_Are those horns?_

"Bloody hell, someone turn it down!" yelled Seamus, who admittedly was the furthest away from the receiver.

Neville frantically clawed at the brass box, swivelling the leftmost dial counter-clockwise.

"Merlin's balls," said Seamus, "we'll be in for it now. There's no way McGonagall didn't hear that!"

"We can worry about that in the morning. It's too late now," Harry whispered, gazing intently at what he assumed were title cards.

The rather jazzy soundtrack (now playing at a far more tolerable volume) accompanied the words '_a film brought to you by the MR. MOONY THEATRE' _which floated high and wide in extravagant lettering, revolving around the room as they flickered intermittently. Harry thought that the sequence might have been more suited to the old action films that Phil and Greg sometimes dragged him to watch at the small video store, which he found especially odd on account of how rarely wizards and Muggles were said to interact.

The fancy letters condensed into the form of a minute white sphere above the brass box, exploding yet again in a burst of shape and desaturated colour. Two duellists, maybe three or four years older than them, squared off along what looked like a duelling platform in Hogwarts' Yellow Studio.

He immediately recognised the boy on his left. It was his father, slightly taller and longer-faced compared to Toothill's photograph, but just as animated. The other was a long-haired, handsome wizard of similar height. If his toothy grin was of any indication, the enthusiasm was mutual.

Harry was blown away; they both displayed a presence that outstripped what he had observed from the current Upper School team. The long-haired boy - whom Harry assumed was 'Black' or 'The Grim' - seemed to glide between the spellfire. Every step formed a perfect arc, a softly sung cadence to his next stance. Always fluid, never stationary.

Harry's father, in contrast, was positively feral. His strikes were abrupt, off-beat and nigh impossible to mirror. More than once he would dive straight into what should have been his oblivion, only to pull himself short and deliver a counter-offensive at a knife's edge.

His fans were right: James Potter _was _barmy.

"Cor, they're pretty young there," said Dean.

Neville hummed. "They would've been. Must be when they were on Level Three, I think?"

"Something like that," said Ron, yawning. "George called it the 'cradle of their career'."

Harry glanced at Ron. "Career?" he asked, perplexed. "Aren't they still at Hogwarts, here?"

Toothill did say that James had started training at Circuit level while he was still at school, but the idea of his father duelling for money as a minor hadn't really occurred to him.

"Most pros are picked up really young," said Neville, his eyes still trained on the Wireless. "Thirteen usually - when you can get your Part One."

"Part One?" He was truly confused now.

Dean sighed. "Of your Wand License, Harry," he said.

"Ah," he replied, shuffling uncomfortably.

He mentally kicked himself for that one, since Doge _had_ mentioned the License more than once even before he'd started school.

The faded images began to bleed and flicker as they were replaced by another exhibition. An open field came into view, with several spectators surrounding Black and a nameless opponent as they circled each other in a low-walled stone ring. The hulking warlock dwarfed Black, both in size and arsenal - he was carrying a wand and a small staff, to boot.

"Oooh," said Dean, waggling his eyebrows as he rubbed his hands together. "Cheeky bit of underground action!"

Harry gaped at him. "You mean this one isn't legal?"

"Harry mate," said Seamus, gripping Harry's shoulder as he regarded him with a pitying smile. "Are Cockatrice fights ever legal?"

"I'd hope not," he replied, frowning. The others laughed as they turned back to watch the duel.

"Duck - dance - dance - drive... _boom!_" bellowed Neville. The Gryffindor boys guffawed as Black briskly deflected a smoky blast of light from his opponent's staff, thereby felling the giant warlock with his own spell.

The crowd stormed the ring, and the image flickered yet again. They were back indoors, in some small, well-lit chamber, and reunited with Harry's father. The other challenger - a stocky, short-bearded fellow who glared at his corporeal audience at regular intervals - was far older than him, though he carried just the one wand.

"Little more legit," muttered Ron, sounding amused.

Neville perked up. "Wait a minute," he said quietly, his finger slowly tapping at thin air. "I've seen this somewhere before."

"Where?" asked Harry, sharing a puzzled look with Ron.

The stocky wizard Conjured dozens of rocks, pelting them across the length of the room with impressive speed. The young Baron would, in turn, either casually return the barrage of stones or occasionally Transfigure a larger fragment into a fluffy material which harmlessly floated to his feet.

"Yeah," rasped Neville, pointing at the illusion, "that's his trainer, MacFusty. This must be the _Pumpkin Incident_."

"What's the Pumpkin Incident?" asked Harry.

"It put your dad's name on the map," Neville said, snorting.

Ron gasped. "No wonder Fred and George jumped me when I nicked this!"

"They cut it off before he gets hit though, don't they?" asked Dean.

"Officially," replied Neville, smirking. "But this looks like the original... See, _there!" _

MacFusty drew back his wand arm, likely to hurl yet another assault. His protege, apparently sensing an opportunity, traced a strange, crooked gesture in the air with his own wand, shouting something unintelligible as a foamy jet of light caught his adversary squarely in the face.

"No way," said Dean, chortling as the bearded wizard's head swelled at a rapid pace.

"The Pumpkin-Head Hex," whispered Neville, his eyes reverent as he gazed at the Wireless. "Never finished, rarely seen..."

* * *

Harry spent the next few weeks both inspired and humbled by his father's exploits. To have even partially created a spell at the age of fifteen (and a Transformative Hex, at that) was testament to James' skill as a sorcerer, and Harry now had a more substantial standard to attain by his O.W.L years. That being said, this newest sliver of insight he had been granted only served to fuel the flames of his desire to learn even more about his birth parents.

The Headmaster had alluded his mother's brilliance as well, and her own participation in the fight against Grindelwald was something that Harry could not hope to ignore. He was more tempted than ever to consult Professor Slughorn who, according to Dumbledore, knew Lily Potter very well. Unfortunately, the Slytherin Head of House had proven to be quite the elusive character. His public appearances were generally restricted to School suppers, and if Draco's word was true, the younger Slytherins had the pleasure of meeting him only a handful of times since the start of term.

He wasn't oblivious to the dearth of information he had concerning his mother, by any means. She was his _aunt's _sister, after all, a revelation that he still had trouble getting used to, even though the happy, yet blurry period he shared with his assumed parents was painfully brief indeed. Lily Potter's relative obscurity did make sense: she was a Muggle-born. One that had been invited to Hogwarts before the Union started relocating magical children, surely, but a Muggle-born nonetheless, and therefore a member of the class which those of Greengrass' ilk loathed to acknowledge.

Were wizards privately ashamed of the hurt and confusion they caused among the youth of 'new' blood? Harry could only speculate, but it might have explained why the prickly witch would fly off the handle if someone dared to merely utter Hermione's name in passing. Nevertheless, Slytherins were not a monolith, as Harry was reminded during Vitalemy one day. Professor Grubbly-Plank saw fit to switch the seating plan upon their introduction to Clabberts, leaving a shell-shocked Neville sitting next to Shastri while Harry was paired with none other than Tracey Davis.

"So," said Tracey, smiling broadly as she inspected her scalpel. "Who's making the first cut?"

Harry stole a quick peek at the wooden box in front of them, which he knew contained a very frog-like, very dead Clabbert.

_It's just so wrong, _he thought, dismayed. _How is Neville even coping with this?_

He blanched. "Don't you kind of feel like we're doing this backwards?"

Tracey's grin widened. "Surely you aren't yellow, Harry!"

"Not at all," he said indignantly, crossing his arms as he felt his face flush. "I'd just appreciate a little background theory, first... "

Tracey snorted as she tipped over the cover of the wooden box. Harry tightly shut his eyes.

The rest of the lesson passed by without much of a fuss, which could be mainly attributed to the fact that the class' supposedly expired specimens were actually made of jelly. To say that Harry felt embarrassed would have been an understatement.

"Weren't you listening last week, Harry?" asked Tracey, who barely managed to contain a fit of laughter as she left for the Castle with her dumbstruck classmate. "Grubbly moved the real dissections to January!"

"I guess not," he replied, smiling sheepishly. "My head's been elsewhere, to be honest."

It was true; with Susan on extra-curricular probation, Simon Hornby was currently moonlighting as Harry's duelling partner. Though he was a Junior member, Hornby was also a fourth year, and his superior familiarity with a wand left Harry Disarmed more often than his ego was willing to take. When one also took his dorm mates' late-night Wireless watching sessions into account, Harry was of the opinion that his recent slump in concentration was easily justifiable.

"Like that's news," said Tracey, smirking.

Harry huffed. "Why don't you try juggling classes with a Club like mine some time?"

"Well seeing as I already attend three," she answered, raising an eyebrow, "I might have a trick or two to teach you, Mr. Baron Junior."

"Oh _ha ha,"_ drawled Harry, eyelids drawn. "You know, I actually thought you were all right, Davis."

"Aww," she cooed, patting Harry on the head. "Did I cwush wittle Potty's manhood?"

"Hard to do, considering he's eleven," a voice said from behind them.

Harry felt his heart jump as he spun on his heels.

"_Stupefy._"

* * *

_Tip. _

_Tap. _

_Drip, drip, tap._

"We're buggered," Harry heard a nasal voice spit somewhere in front of him as he suddenly awoke.

"You what?" asked a deeper, puzzled voice to his right.

"What are we going to do about _Davis,_ you bloody idiot?"

Wherever he was, it was freezing - and _damp. _Harry's head was pounding, and his shins, bound together and pressed towards the rugged, stony floor, were chilled through his hose.

He saw nothing.

Running a trembling hand over his face, Harry felt a thick piece of fabric wrapped over his spectacles. He tried to tear it away with all his might, but to no avail. It seemed that he would have to bide his time until he was certain that his whispering captors were sufficiently preoccupied with each other.

"Leave him alone, she's been dealt with," said a calm, far more assured voice.

_Dealt with? _

He had to get out of here. Harry praised the non-existent Woden himself for having long known how to 'Apparate', as _Demeter D. Davenport's Three Ds _had termed the skill. He clenched his fists, letting the rest of his senses fall away as he focused on his nice, cosy bed in the Tower...

"You expect me to just rest easy because 'oh, she's been dealt with?'" the Nasal One snapped. "I could lose my badge for this!"

"Snuff your sparks," the Calm One replied. "The Chief has it covered."

"Come off it. He said we were on our own this time!"

It was taking longer than usual, Harry thought, but he reasoned that he hadn't practised it for quite some time...

"We sent her straight over," urged the Deep One. "He's sorted it. Give us a break, Y- "

"Fine," grunted the Nasal One, somewhat mollified. "But we deal with the other brat properly. None of this Stunning on the grounds rubbish."

This wasn't normal; he could hear his captors' voices clearly, and the smell of drenched stone and mildew still lingered in the air.

Were they in the Dungeons?

"_Finite_," muttered the Nasal One. Harry scrambled to his feet as soon as his legs unfroze. 'Hand him his wand.'

"Easy does it, Potter," he heard the Deep One murmur as a beefy hand seized his own.

_"I don't like this," _came a growl as Harry wrapped his fingers around the foot of holly.

_Do you think I'm having _fun_ here? _retorted Harry.

_"You like frogs, idiot. Who knows what your idea of fun is... "  
_

"Whelp!" the Nasal One shouted. "State your name in full!"

Harry felt a prodding sensation at the back of his neck.

"H-harry James Potter," he rasped, gripping his wand for dear life. "What do you w- "

"The _whelp,_" said the Nasal One, "is advised that speaking out of turn is highly frowned upon by its superiors. Repeat offenders are liable to receive the appropriate punishment. Comply, and you leave with your life and pitiful magic. Does the whelp accept these terms?"

Harry swallowed. "Yes," he replied, clenching his jaw as he felt a dull throb from his wand.

_Don't you start_.

"Harry James Potter," spoke the Calm One. Harry heard a soft, trailing echo of footsteps encircle him. "Yesterday, you won the favour of the crown, but you have yet to prove yourself to her counsel. Are you prepared to plead your case?"

The 'crown'? What on earth was going on here?

"I... yes?"

"I will ask you again," answered the Calm One, firmer this time. "Harry James Potter, are you prepared to plead your case?"

_"Idiot..." _breathed his wand warningly. His hand was buzzing now, and it grew warmer by the second.

"I am," Harry said boldly, rolling back his shoulders as he stood straight.

"Harry James Potter... Today, you stand on broad shoulders. Not of giants, but of warlocks. Are you fit to climb to the temple?"

It was an odd question - Harry was sure of it that time - but he felt compelled to go along with the charade.

_Faster I can get out of here..._

"I am," he replied.

The footsteps ceased. "Harry James Potter," the Calm One said, breath hanging on every other syllable. "Tomorrow, your name will strike fear in the hearts of your enemies. Are you ready to stake your claim?"

"I am."

"Harry James Potter, plucked from the abyss." his captors chanted as one. "May the Wild light your path to the Wand of Destiny!"

_"NO!" _shrieked his wand as it violently tugged on his hand. "_You have _me_!"_

_Calm down, for crying- _

_"I listened to you last time," _it snapped, the words trembling in tandem with their vessel. "_I won't let you slip twice, idiot!"_

"FIRE!"

_"Mordeo!"_

_"Furnunculus!"_

Hearing the Hexes form on their lips, Harry leapt into action and rolled to his right, but not every muscle complied. Before he had even noticed, his wand hand was in the middle of an all-too familiar sweeping bulbous gesture. Harry tried to interrupt the motion with his off hand, but it was a fruitless effort.

"_Impedi-" _grunted the Calm One, but he was far too late.

_No, please no- _

_"INCENDIO!" _cried the voice that, for the longest time, Harry wished was a figment of his imagination._  
_

As a bright, angry orange ray of light penetrated the holes of the dark fabric over his spectacles, a flurry of frenzied screams accompanied the roaring flames from every corner. Harry could make out at least a half-dozen shadows scatter away as he whirled around, hurriedly trying to cast the counter-Charm.

He didn't have to; one frigid, cascading sensation later, Harry found himself soaked to the bone, his wand extinguished.

_Was anyone hurt? _he wondered with slight trepidation.

Something hard tapped his glasses. _"Finite." _The blindfold fell away, and he was greeted by the face of the Calm One for the first time.

He was considerably taller than Harry. Pale-skinned and brown-haired, he flashed a roguish grin at the younger wizard.

_Hufflepuff, _thought Harry as he warily eyed the boy's cravat.

"Blimey Potter," he half-laughed, eyes wide in awe.

Spotting a wooden door between stone walls behind him, Harry dashed past as he made for the exit.

"Welcome to the Squad!" the Hufflepuff called after him.

Harry didn't dare look back as he fled the dungeon. If the older boy expected him to celebrate right now, he was even stranger than the creepy ritual had indicated.

"What did you do to me?" he hissed aloud, glaring at his wand as he ran as fast as his feet could take him.

_"I won't let them Curse you!" _his wand shouted, sounding stricken with fear. _"Not again!_ Never_ again!_"

This was too much to handle. He had to find Dumbledore.

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Happy Holidays! Once again, many thanks for reading, and to those who reviewed the last chapter - special shout-outs to _Thekilleregglord, CazPeak, forever-aine_, _Man of Constant Sorrow _and _Son of Whitebeard_. If you think I missed something, please don't hesitate to send us a quick PM. Next chapter is on its way! :)


	12. Severus Makes A Call

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **A bird sings a song, a wizard hosts a party, and the Gryffindors do some packing.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve - Severus Makes A Call  
**

_The conflicted fear and reverence of lightning is a trait sensibly shared by all magical brethren. It is a force assumed by many in ages past to represent the fury and displeasure of their divine ancestors, and the most learned of our kind are still struggling to fully unravel the mysteries of its destructive potential. Ruining enchantments and rendering creatures impotent aside, the elusive yet formidable nature of lightning and its power to seemingly defy the Earth's magic itself has informed popular culture for centuries. _

_To be skilled or gifted in a magic is to have a 'spark' for one's craft. Capable sorcerers - such as the early ___wand-carrying clans of post-Roman Europe _ \- were often revered as direct descendents of the godhead: for one to carry a name born from the 'bolts of Jove' is still guaranteed to open many doors, though the recent mastery of 'electrical power' (focused lightning) by Muggles has led to the term's relative obscurity in younger generations of the Key-holding gentry.  
_

_The importance that we as wizards might place on tradition and secrecy invariably affects our legacies as well as any magic can, and there is much to be said for a daughter of 'old-blood' who exhibits her mother's talent for bewitching the winds, for example. But we must not forget that, most importantly, it is the child's formative experiences which will decide how she wields her inherent gifts. That she claims a father of Muggle beginnings has never been explicitly proven to 'spoil' or 'jump one's spark', as is often claimed by those who could do better with their time by actually using the wands Gaia gave them!_

~Josef Augo (Grand Sorc.), _Earth versus Water - Deconstructing the Rights to Power_

* * *

"Brandy Sauce."

"Nope, not doing it."

Harry withdrew a frustrated breath as the Headmaster's Gargoyle stood resolute.

"But that's the password!" he said, exasperated. Why would the Professor bother giving him the monthly codeword if it didn't even work?

The Gargoyle briefly laid its arms at its sides for the apparent sole purpose of crossing them again.

"I've told you umpteen times," it replied, sighing. "My orders stand- "

"And you may stand down now, Gregory," echoed a soft voice from the other end of the corridor. Harry turned to face Professor Dumbledore who, by all appearances, looked particularly subdued.

"Ah. Professor," mumbled Harry, trying to look anywhere but. "Sorry. My timing's off, looks like... "

The Headmaster raised a placating hand as he reached the Tower entrance.

"You are my ward, do not forget," he said warmly. "It is a responsibility that I bear with pride."

As Gregory the Gargoyle skulked aside, Harry and Dumbledore climbed the stairs to the Office without another word. It was clear to Harry that his guardian's thoughts were elsewhere, and his pet phoenix appeared to agree: upon their entrance into the circular room, it crooned a sweet, serene melody to uplift its master's spirits.

Harry, on the other hand, received a fleeting glare and a caw of accusation for his trouble, though he supposed it was an improvement from their first meeting.

"Play nice now, Fawkes," Dumbledore said as he sank into his throne-like seat.

Harry stood still. He was in distress, but Dumbledore's faraway gaze gave him the impression that the old wizard was far too pre-occupied to deal with one student's faulty wand issues - even if he was fully responsible for said student.

The hesitation didn't go unnoticed, however.

"Here," said Dumbledore, gesturing at the leather-backed mahogany chair in front of him. "I come prepared this time, as you can see."

"Trumps the floor, I guess," Harry replied as he sat down. Dumbledore chuckled softly, his eyes regaining some of their usual lustre.

"Indeed it does," he said, fingers intertwined as he reclined in his armchair. "And I wholeheartedly appreciate your concern, of course. "

"It's only natural, Professor."

"Yes," said Dumbledore, pensive, "for some. And in your worry for my well-being, your own troubles remain unaddressed."

Harry exhaled. He wasn't ready for this. "I don't even know where to start," he said quietly, eyes downcast.

"Whatever comes to mind first?" offered Dumbledore, his hands splayed in suggestion.

Harry groaned under his breath, nursing the bridge of his nose.

"I... my wand performed the Fire-Making Charm while I was blindfolded. The others ran away."

Dumbledore leapt from his seat.

"Others?" he asked, his voice raised in alarm.

"No one was hurt!" Harry said quickly, thrusting out a hand in protest.

The Headmaster's shoulders visibly relaxed, but he still looked concerned. "You say you were blindfolded?"

"Yes," answered Harry, squirming slightly. "It was a Duelling Squad prank, I think. The boy I saw last... he looks familiar, now that I come to think of it. He wasn't scared or shocked in the slightest, so I'm positive they're all safe."

After a short pause, Dumbledore hummed in agreement, slowly returning to his seat.

"Poppy would have sent word otherwise," he said, idly tracing his beard. "Apologies, Harry. Please continue."

"Right - well, like I said, I didn't cast the spell. My wand did."

"I see." Dumbledore's gaze travelled past Harry. "Not completely out of the ordinary. Do you mind if I... ?" he trailed off, his hand outstretched.

"Oh! Go ahead," said Harry, gingerly handing over his wand.

Dumbledore proceeded to perform a series of complicated wand movements, of which Harry recognised little, if anything. The only motion which produced an identifiable physical effect brought forth a shadowy gout of violent flames, but the colour was wrong, and they were without heat.

_Spell memory, perhaps?_

Under different circumstances, he would have gazed in awe, but after a tense few moments of watching the Headmaster scrutinise the branch of holly, Harry found the silence unbearable.

"It talks to me," he blurted out, cursing inwardly. Harry knew that it was pointless to hide the fact, but he dreaded the outcome regardless.

Dumbledore's eyes met his. "Sorry?"

"It..." Harry took a deep breath as he wrung his hands. "It _talks_. To me."

Dumbledore nodded, and to Harry's surprise, his face soon broke into a wide grin.

"How wonderful," he cheered, returning the wand to his bemused pupil. "I expected nothing less, but congratulations all the same!"

"You mean it's normal?" asked Harry, brow furrowed as he stared down at his companion.

_"Of course I am, you idiot," _it muttered.

"Absolutely," said Dumbledore. "The 'professed sensory perception of highly magical activity, local or remote', as described by the College of Hermetic Physicians. _Wandsong_ is the catch-all term in these parts, though it is something of a misnomer - as those who 'hear' it needn't use a wand or even a gem to encounter the traces of magic in a castle such as ours, for example. A rather uncommon phenomenon, but by no means abnormal."

Harry's frown deepened. "I couldn't find anything on it in the Library."

"I would think not," the Headmaster replied mirthfully. "Barely more than a passing mention, I would assume - a footnote easily overlooked. The nature of Wandsong is a highly contested and dangerous topic, of the kind which can be found only in the Restricted Section of our library. Several hypotheses attempt to account for the root cause, such as affliction by way of Dark magic, hallucinations- "

"You mean I've gone mad?"

He wouldn't have been surprised. Harry was hardly under the delusion that even his non-magical habits were normal; his episode of villainous laughter at the Slytherin table last month was still a popular subject of choice for Tracey, Pansy and Blaise.

"Why Harry," gasped Dumbledore, looking affronted. "Any halfway-decent magician reserves the right to squander at least a fraction of their sanity."

Harry shook his head as he fought down a laugh.

"But do not fret," the silver-haired wizard said, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "These speculations exist only because affected witchfolk are rarely apt to share their experiences in a context useful to researchers. I am aware that you have had similarly strange dealings, Harry. Long before you set foot in this Castle."

Harry fidgeted in his seat. "The Augo Profile," he said, wincing.

Dumbledore nodded. "A most remarkable Profile at that," he replied, smiling proudly. "And it has judged well, once again. You seem to possess quite the magically-attuned character."

Harry didn't respond. Dumbledore leaned slightly forward, his blue eyes twinkling in full force.

"You see it too, don't you Harry?" he said, his voice filled with fervour. "You've heard it, felt it - in rhythms and hues which have no name?"

Harry was now certain that Dumbledore was insane, but that hardly invalidated his words. He did see it, every time he used his wand, and almost as often when he didn't. The Alley's magic had _talked _to him, even reduced him to tears at one point... But it made no sense. His experience with the wizlets, or whatever they were, completely contradicted his first lesson with the Headmaster, which unnerved him even then.

"Aren't the Forms invisible, Sir?"

"They are, yes," replied Dumbledore, "being conditions rather than objects. Their results, however, are experienced by all, and some more than others. It is not what magic reveals to us, but indeed how we choose to perceive it. Yes, you have known the Wandsong for some time, Harry."

"But Professor Flitwick promised," grumbled Harry. "He said I wouldn't explode because of my score, that magic and numbers don't work that way. But when push came to shove, I did exactly that."

And at that moment, the full weight of Harry's conscience gave way. He felt hopeless; what if the wizards had made a mistake?

But Dumbledore's smile refused to fade.

"The good Professor was spot on," he said, "for the Profile's score - unrelated to the Auger Unit, as you may know - is one of many non-magical numbers used to describe a range of fantastic concepts. Much like our gold-trading habits, in fact.

"You see, Harry, it is your character - your experiences - and _only _yours, which the Augo Profile quantifies. The test is one part magical, two parts psychological after all. On the other hand, you have inherited many of your parents' mannerisms without ever remembering them. You were finely raised, of that there is no doubt. But you felt out-of-place in London, did you not?" Harry nodded meekly. "And even here, in the midst of all that you hoped would make sense. A most extraordinary pair from two _very_ different worlds, Lily and James were... I should not have been surprised by Elphias' findings."

"Oldest of the old, newest of the new," Harry said aloud, mostly to himself. The mention of his parents' backgrounds was highly reminiscent of Draco's inane ramblings on the nature of magical blood.

Dumbledore sat up. "Exactly! Stuck between a rock and a hard place - it appears that we are kindred spirits, Harry."

"You're Jumpsparked as well, sir?" asked Harry before he had the chance to bite his tongue, but he was assured by Dumbledore's hearty laugh.

"I see the term has not lost its edge," he said, wiping away a stray tear. "But I suppose that I am, if one accepts the definition without the customary pinch of salt. My instructors, peer group, even my own father... they all attributed my unusual feats with a wand - as well as my brother's aggressive displays with his own, among other things - to my mother's Muggle blood. Some condemn it as dilution, others patronise it as a catalyst which invigorates inherited magics: a union between centuries-brewed affinity and fresh, vibrant inspiration. Both are disturbing concepts. Though arguably well-intentioned depending on one's perspective, they nevertheless portray Muggle-borns as little more than ingredients, rather than individuals."

"I'm with you on that one," muttered Harry. Both Draco and Hermione came to mind.

"But Professor," he said, still unsatisfied. "Why would my wand act... well, like this?"

_"Like what, idiot? Call me crazy - I wish you would!"_

"Ah! We did veer off-track, so to speak," chirped Dumbledore, raising a triumphant finger. "Now that is a somewhat less uncommon phenomenon, and far more demonstrable. The answer is right behind you."

Harry peered over his shoulder, following the path of Dumbledore's outstretched finger. His eyes fell on the Headmaster's pet phoenix, which shot him a beady-eyed glare.

"The chick- I mean, Fawkes?" asked Harry.

Dumbledore bore a crooked smile. "I received correspondence from Mister Ollivander," he said, ambling over to the fiery bird, "shortly after you visited him. We have collaborated for many years, Garrick and I. So you can imagine my delight upon reading that one of Fawkes' donor feathers had provided a perfect match, and for the first time in almost sixty years. To my own ward, no less."

Harry made a face. "One of _Fawkes'_ feathers?" He looked down at the stick of holly in his hand for a second and shrugged. "Makes sense, actually."

_"I know," _purred his wand. _"He's _ver_y dashing."_

"The phoenix is typically a solitary creature," Dumbledore said as Fawkes affectionately nipped at his fingers. "One of fierce independence. Our longstanding friendship aside, Fawkes is no different. The same traits can reveal themselves in wands containing phoenix feather cores, which often feel assured in knowing what is best for their masters."

_"Because we do!"_

_Please shut up. Wizards are talking. _Harry was promptly given a shock up the forearm.

"I just," Harry grunted, scratching his arm, "don't want a repeat of today. I'm supposed to be learning how _not _to blow everything up! Burning people to a crisp is the last thing I want to do."

"And your wand knows this, Harry," replied Dumbledore, strolling back to his seat. "Just as well as you do, in truth. Were you not caught off-guard, and I suspect that Professor Toothill and I will be having words concerning your peers in the Duelling Squad- "

Harry groaned. "Please don't, Professor!"

"But I must, and will," Dumbledore said, his tone firm. "Club traditions notwithstanding, a great deal of harm may have come to you and several other pupils today. While the culprits cannot be readily identified, I am compelled to raise the issue with your Coach. Not as your guardian, Harry, but in my responsibility as Headmaster. I would ask that you place your faith in me - the Duelling Squad initiation has been a thorn in the side of teachers at Hogwarts for a few centuries, but I have not keeled over just yet."

Harry nodded mutely. He understood the Professor's burden, but he hoped that no one would be severely reprimanded. The fewer students there were to hold a grudge against him, the better.

"As for your Wandsong-related woes," Dumbledore said with an impish smile, "I believe the time has come to assign you a personal instructor."

Harry sat up straight. Extra lessons? And for the wizlets (or Wandsong, he guessed) of all things?

"Two of our teachers possess the quality in addition to myself, but schedules are tight. I would tutor you personally, though the coming months might threaten the practicality of regular meetings."

"That's a shame." He was genuinely disappointed. Private lessons with the legendary sorcerer would have been the stuff of dreams.

"Fortunately, I have the perfect solution," said Dumbledore, clapping his hands together. "A close acquaintance of mine has recently sustained an injury at work. He does not expect to return until the beginning of next September at the earliest, and as such is more than happy to oversee your extra-curricular tuition. Three hours a week, starting in January."

"That's _fortunate_, Professor?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Of course! He has been refused sufficient holiday leave for a criminal length of time."

Harry couldn't help but laugh, and the Headmaster soon joined him.

"I guess I used to take my summers for granted," Harry said, their chuckles reaching a lull. "I do have one more question though, Professor."

"Ask away, Harry."

"What's it like for you? You know, talking with your wand?"

Dumbledore opened his mouth at first, but no words came. His eyes shimmered for an instant, almost imperceptibly, before his face broke into a wistful smile.

"It has been so long now," he answered, barely louder than a whisper, "that there are few words left between us."

They spent a while, maybe a minute or so, in quiet reflection, before the silence was broken by a roar from the fireplace.

_"HEADMASTER DUMBLEDORE?" _boomed a voice from the fire.

Harry jumped in his seat.

Dumbledore laughed. "Forgive me Harry," he said, rising from his seat to inspect the crackling flames. "May I ask who is calling?"

_"PROFESSOR SEVERUS SNAPE."_

"Ah yes, bring him through."

As soon as the fire died down, a gargantuan igneous replica of the Potioneering teacher's face sprung to life from the embers. Harry couldn't believe his eyes.

"Good afternoon Headmaster. Mister Potter," the Snape-Head croaked.

"Likewise, Professor," replied Dumbledore, inclining his head. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

The Snape-Head's blazing orange eyes hovered over Harry; the experience was even more unnerving than enduring the Professor's paralysing gaze in person. Though he rarely faced the teacher's wrath, he (and many others) avoided Snape's line of sight on principle.

"I've a message from the Chief-wizard." The head finally pulled away from Harry, its eyes leaving a bright, wispy orange trail in their wake. "Champagne for tea?"

Dumbledore let out a dry laugh. "It does ring a bell, of sorts," he said.

"I guess I'll be on my way, Professor?" called Harry, already on his way to the staircase.

The Headmaster spun around. "Take care, Harry - oh! Before you go... "

Harry stopped in his tracks.

"Do you have a favourite sweet, by any chance?" he asked.

Harry pursed his lips in thought. "Treacle Tart, Professor," he replied, nodding in assurance. "Chocolate Frogs are cool too, but I'm more partial to the cards."

Dumbledore beamed. "As am I! Season's Greetings, Harry."

* * *

_"Wizard or Elfish  
Gnome or Centaur,  
The Wild keeps and fills us  
Magic beyond All."_

As he admired the flawlessly rendered cursive inscription on the silver plinth before him, the Headmaster of Hogwarts allowed himself an upturned smile. It supported a most handsome revolving life-size statue of the Greek god Hermes, staff in hand and helmet askew as he prepared for flight. The foyer centrepiece for the Chief-wizard of Belgarum's palatial headquarters, the proverb probably served as a warm reminder for most guests that above all else, every magical creature on Earth shared both a common origin and - without splitting a myriad hairs - a common divine patron. For the marginally more alert visitor, however, the placement of Hermes sent a clear message.

He was a god of humanity, a wand-carrier and, like Thoth, Kumugwe and several other deities of magic, often credited as a progenitor of wizardkind. Whether the artist lacked the room or time to represent the objects of the other races' venerations or not would remain unknown.

His intense fascination with the higher mysteries of old notwithstanding, Albus had never considered himself to be particularly religious, and he would wager that his host was very much the same behind closed doors. Yes, knowing the young Chief-wizard (having taught him, even), and that he stood before Hermes instead of the westerly Allfather, this silver-worked personification of the Wild was likely symbolic of the importance he placed on his strong ties to the continent as a whole. Albus wouldn't have expected any less.

"Sir Albus?"

Albus glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting those of the young jade-robed witch at the front desk.

"Is he ready, now?" he asked.

She nodded with a tight-lipped smile. "If you'd like to go straight up."

Albus flashed the receptionist a grin of his own as he passed by her desk, electing to climb the right of a pair of polished black marble steps which led to the balcony above. He took his time, gently running a hand over the glossy chalk-white handrail as he studied his surroundings.

It was a beautiful scene; the motif of leaves, petals and other florid designs along each beam, mantle and skirting board accentuated the hall's baroque character. Looking upward, Albus took note of the animated mural which depicted the baronage's line of succession as a heavenly host of some sort. It was known to be longer than most among the other Chief Houses, but the existence of the previous keepers of the Belgarum Keys might have been too bitter of an elixir to swallow: not one Selwyn face graced the Enchanted Ceiling, nor did one appear in any of the foyer's several dozen paintings on show. The conquest was near millennium-old history to be sure, but sour sentiments lingered in pockets of local Saxon loyalists well into the nineteenth century.

If one also took the interior's recent and well-publicised renovation into consideration, it was clear that the Right Honourable Baron Lucius Malfoy the Second, fifty-seventh Chief-wizard of Belgarum had not forgotten, either.

As if on cue, his host strolled through two lofty ebony doors once Albus had reached the top of the stairs. Clad in silky black robes and hose, his pale, pointed chin was perfectly poised as he surveyed the foyer below through steely grey eyes, threading back fine white-blond hair in the way a peacock might preen its feathers. A good-looking wizard, Albus would readily admit - though if anything, it only served to enhance his slippery disposition.

_The anointed guardian cherub, tarnished in all its splendour._

"Good afternoon, dear Wizard," Albus called, stepping forward. The Chief-wizard's gaze snapped to the right.

"Ah! Sir Albus," he said, beckoning Albus over. "We're glad that you could join us on such short notice - having to move dates, we're already a month overdue, here!"

Albus smiled wanly. "The consequences of success, no doubt," he replied.

"We have quite the feast of refreshments should you happen to feel a little peckish - I hope you aren't allergic to anything... ?"

Albus' eyes shot open. "Why Lucius," he said with a chuckle. "You sounded almost _hopeful _there."

Lucius returned a rich chortle of his own.

"Sharp-quilled as ever! Please," he replied, ushering the Headmaster through the double doors.

As one would expect, the young Chief-wizard's spacious office was just as picturesque. It conformed to the similar chalk-white theme of the walls and rails downstairs, though the petals and leaves which adorned the hexagonal room's fairy-covered columns appeared to be fashioned from solid white gold. At the centre of the room sat a similarly-shaped black rug with silver embellishments, which rippled like a stream under stars at night as a host of reptilian creatures paddled across its surface. The ceiling was plain white in contrast, though hardly barren: a façade of a Runespoor had been sculpted from the stone itself, its heads gently rising and falling as if at rest. Behind the rug lay a marble desk - a cleanly carved structure with dragon-clawed legs - and a silver cage stood tall on its right, no doubt for his personal owl (Albus presumed that it was self-cleaning, if only due to its pristine condition). The office window occupied much of the farthest wall, inviting a generous ray of early afternoon sunlight into the room.

Looking to his right, Albus found the guests, most of whom he knew at least in passing, clustered around a table ample with delicacies he dare not pronounce. The dragon-sculpted fireplace in the opposite direction housed a bright green flame: perhaps the Chief-wizard expected more arrivals?

"I must say, Lucius," said Albus, "I am rather taken with the re-modelling. Highly resemblant of Finelli's work, in fact."

The Chief-wizard smiled for a fleeting moment, though his eyes narrowed in uncertainty.

"Of who, sorry?"

"Giuliano Finelli," said Albus, pointing a finger at the leafy fairy-columns. "He was a Muggle sculptor. Italian, seventeenth century."

"I see... can't say that I've heard of him," replied Lucius, slightly wrinkling his nose. "My wife directed the whole project, of course, though I do like it, yes... "

The two wizards fell quiet for a short while, but just as Albus turned with the intention of joining Madams Chang and Edgecombe in conversation, the fireplace roared.

"And here she is," said Lucius fondly, extending a hand.

The mass of viridian flames nipped at the hems of faintly luminescent grey robes as a tall, porcelain-skinned witch entered the office, a mane of straight blond hair resting just past her shoulders. With prominent cheekbones, a patrician nose, rosy lips and all, the Chief-wizard's wife was as glamorous as her partner, and if her sharp blue eyes were any indication, equally as shrewd.

"Sir Albus," she said breathlessly, walking over at a brisk pace. "Thank you for coming, it's wonderful to see you out and about! Apologies for my tardiness - I had the most enjoyable shiatsu session and- "

"It is a pleasure, dear Madam," Albus replied as they briefly embraced. "Having not quite gone grey the last time I took a lunchbreak outside of Hogsmeade, the invitation was welcome!"

Madam Malfoy's laugh chimed as it reflected off of the walls. "_Silver_, Sir Albus," she said, lightly tapping his arm, "and you wear it well! I hope our little Draco isn't giving you too much trouble?"

Albus shook his head. "Not that I am aware of," he said, tittering, "though I am positive that Horace would send an owl in such an event."

Her eyes darted to her husband, who cleared his throat.

"Yes, indeed... " he trailed off, before the Madam's eyes lit up again.

"You must try the Ramora roe," she said brightly, guiding him towards the refreshments. "Freshly cured in the Seychelles just last night - or would it have been this morning... ?"

"I might have to decline," he murmured in response, regarding the tray of tiny, pale gold eggs with a heedful eye. The Malfoys of all people should have been well aware of the ICW's anti-poaching rulings over the past year. "Though your hospitality is much appreciated."

Lucius scoffed. "Nonsense, Albus," he said. "Only the finest is fit for such a valued colleague. Speaking of which, it was devastating to hear of... "

"Iggy?" said Albus, his eyes meeting the Chief-wizard's. "Yes, he was a valued Governor. A splendid Wizard in the Chambers for many years, and we were close friends for many more."

"It's a queer thing," Madam Malfoy said plaintively, "that the mere news of death can be near-fatal in and of itself. Only three years have passed since Lucius' father left us - I thought we'd never see the light of day."

"Yet we've accomplished so much, Narcissa." Lucius gently grasped his wife's hand in his own as he waved over the office with the other. "The end of an era giving birth anew. Much like your _other_ friend, Sir Albus."

Albus stole a glance at the fire, chuckling softly as he considered the Chief-wizard's impromptu eulogy.

"I would assume so," he answered, inclining his head. "One would expect, however, that a creature such as a phoenix would not hold grudges over missed feedings."

The Malfoys laughed in chorus.

"To be free of accountability," Lucius said wistfully, gazing into thin air. "It might explain my son's appetite, of all things..."

"Come now, Lucius!" Narcissa admonished him with a stare, her brows knit. "He isn't even here to defend himself."

Lucius grumbled something unintelligible as he pulled out a silver pocket watch.

"Should be getting a move on," he muttered, glancing up at Albus. "Sorry to cut it fine, Sir- "

"Not at all," said Albus cordially. He had a school to run, after all.

Lucius nodded to Narcissa, and they strode towards the centre of the office to address the guests.

"May I have everyone's attention for a few minutes?" The murmurs died quickly as the room's occupants turned to their host.

"Friends, colleagues, fellow proud parents and all," said Lucius, his eyes gleaming as brightly as his teeth, "it is a pleasure having you all here today. We've much to celebrate, much to thank the Wild for at the very least, and I dare to speak for us all when I say that it is high time that we enjoy the fruits of our labour. And so, fellow Hogwarts Governors, my Chamber-mates, our friends from the Heritage Foundation and the Eleven-Seventeen Committee - I propose a toast."

With a deft flick of his wrist, Lucius magicked a flute of champagne from the ether. The guests followed suit, securing their own from the table.

"To Hogwarts, to our children and of course, to the Union," he declared, raising his flute. "May they all prosper for ages to come."

Mumbled agreements paraded the office as the guests raised their glasses in kind.

"We have made great strides this year, not restricted to Hogwarts and The Magus Anglesey's retaining their first and seventh positions on the Derwent World League Table for the eleventh year in a row -" an enthusiastic round of applause followed, "- nor to upholding the Union's specialist status as premier in the school-age education of Cardinals and Sorcery. Now we can be rather hard-headed, us Pocks- "

A fair number of the attending Wizengamot members guffawed. The 'Jove-Gideon' Party, as the Pocks were officially known, were notorious as zealous reactionaries in the Chambers. Whether they fully deserved the reputation or not was debatable.

"But even we will admit that reforms have their place. Rest assured, Madams and Wizards: we have elected not to rest on our laurels. Providing our Union's workshop Masters and vocational training institutions with the necessary funding, thereby facilitating higher numbers of apprenticeships than ever is a top priority. We have accomplished that. Ensuring that at least a third of our young witchfolk can demonstrate basic comprehension in a classical language by the year Two-thousand is paramount, should we wish to retain our position on the world stage. The Ministry's implementation of our guidelines in W.O.M.B.A.T and O.W.L testing leaves us well on our way. But we are far from finished.

"Our Muggle-born children are still lagging behind. How could they not? Anything between five to ten years of suffering in such conditions leaves their magic woefully underdeveloped, but the community still turns a blind eye. Some out of neglect, others out of the fear of being misunderstood. That is why I am delighted to announce the release of _Lightning Rods_: a joint-venture anthology of reports authored by the Eleven-Seventeen Committee's crack team of Healers, Obliviators and Muggle liaison experts, and the Chairwoman of the Heritage Foundation, my darling wife Narcissa Malfoy... credited as N D _Black_. Who knew?"

Narcissa curtsied, wearing a wry grin as a blend of laughs and applause circled the office yet again.

"We hope to make serious waves following its release next week," said Lucius, "and as an insider, I have been hard at work drafting proposals from its contents alongside Chief-wizard Smith- " he raised his flute to a greying, stiff-lipped wizard on Albus' right, "- and his team in Kent. Madams and Wizards, we cannot fool ourselves any longer: separate schooling for first-generation wizardkind is the way forward."

Albus sucked in a sharp breath; what on _earth_ was Lucius playing at? The muffled remarks which reached his ears revealed that most of his guests - as well as a couple of the Hogwarts Board - were very receptive to the idea.

But just then, he felt a large, calloused hand grip his shoulder.

" 'S a bloomin' farce," whispered a gruff voice from behind him.

Albus glanced back to face a burly, bald wizard with an auburn beard.

"Iggy _never_ woulda stood fer this," he snarled under his breath, cold blue eyes locked firmly on Lucius' form.

"I'm inclined to agree," replied Albus, pensive. Lucius' crusade was hardly novel; arguably another inheritance from his late father, Abraxas. The erstwhile Malfoy patriarch had a friend in more than one Governor, and expecting more of the same, they appointed his son without hesitation. Ignatius Prewett, the "Champion of Mushrooms" in every fibre of his being, had fought against the repressive proposals tooth and nail on every available platform.

"Our end objective to establish such a system across grassroots village educators and trade schools alike lies far beyond the horizon," continued Lucius, "but we have spoken at length with other Board Governors of Hogwarts, Anglesey's and Pearlclyfe Schools. As independent institutions, we are given the privilege and responsibility to serve our Union as pioneers, and following negotiations we hope to begin trials in Wizarding Studies and Cardinals lessons which specifically cater for Muggle-borns who, although meeting the academic criteria, are nonetheless victim to an insufficient period of settlement. By June Nineteen-ninety-three, we hope to receive parent approval for a petition, and... "

"What a shambles," said the bald wizard, as if he were short of breath.

Albus sighed. "It's been a long time coming, Donald," he answered, grimacing. "The Board has been raptured one-by-one. Except for yourself, that is."

Donald shook his head as he scratched his scruffy chin. "Chang's still on the fence," he said, "and little Miss Edgecombe ain't been to a meeting in many a month. Giv'em a talkin' to later, I reckon."

"It is all that can be done."

Donald made a rueful snort as they refocused their attention to the young Chief-wizard.

_Impeccable timing, Lucius_. _Truly well played._

* * *

_"Pulto!"_

Simon Hornby was open. Wide open.

Harry had been working tirelessly on his Pounding Hex for the past few weeks, and the practice had apparently paid off: the cork-shaped wave blew the fourth-year's right side backwards before he could Propel the Hex aside. He couldn't have enough time to recover, surely-

_"EXP-" _cried Harry in triumph, but his opponent's stare was unrelenting.

_"Perturbo! Expelliarmus," _hissed Hornby, spinning full-circle on his left heel. His wand hand was far off-course, but that didn't seem to matter in the slightest.

The spells knew their target.

Harry deflected the cloudy Puzzling Jinx with ease, but Hornby's Disarming Charm followed the first spell like a shadow. Before he could even blink, Harry's wand was seized from his embrace, sailing through the air in a graceful arc towards its captor's expectant palm.

Hornby whistled. "Vinco," he said, breathing a sigh of satisfaction as he returned Harry's wand. "Almost had us there, Harry!"

Harry sniffed at him. "Almost being the operative word."

Snatching the holly missile from the air, he gave the Ravenclaw a weak smile of appreciation before jumping off of the platform. Harry was bitter, and if Hornby's furtive glances across the rest of the Studio were any indication, he was doing a poor job of hiding it.

That being said, Harry was grateful for his help. While some might have perceived it as masochistic, he just couldn't see himself improving nearly as quickly if he was partnered with one of the other Juniors.

Merrythought sauntered over, her slow claps ringing high above the spellfire in the background.

"Good work, boys!" she said jovially, resting balled fists on hips. " 'Specially your little Dance there, Hornby. Kept your cool, nicely done."

Hornby grinned, giving the towering witch a lazy salute. "Cheers, Coach! I think I'll take that break, now."

Merrythought nodded him off, turning her attention to Harry. "Learn anything worthwhile today, Potter?"

Harry huffed. "That Hornby isn't human?" Merrythought was silent. "Sorry," he mumbled.

A faint smirk played across his coach's lips. "What makes you say that?" she asked.

"Because his arm was... " Harry trailed off as he replayed the scene in his head. He wasn't wrong; Hornby's wand hand was ridiculously off mark at the time of casting.

But his eyes hadn't left Harry for an instant.

"Bugger."

"Watch it, Potter!"

Harry gave his coach a sheepish smile. "It was his eye contact, wasn't it?"

Merrythought gripped his shoulder. "Natural, you are," she replied, winking. "And now you're going to do it, too."

"Me?" gulped Harry. "But- "

Merrythought shushed him. "Too late to play modest martyr, boy," she said, a teasing lilt to her tone. "You've not complained once about me pairing you with Hornby, and it's been a whole month. What makes you think I'll go easy on you now?"

In all honesty, he preferred being beaten squarely by Hornby when the alternative was Susan's Cursing him in the back, but he wasn't going to let Merrythought know that.

"Hey, Coach!" Harry heard a familiar voice call from a couple of platforms away.

_"That sounds like..." _whispered his wand.

_The Calm One..._ Harry's stomach tied itself in knots as the older student scuttled over.

"Diggory," said Merrythought, giving the Hufflepuff duellist a tight nod. "What can I do you for?"

Diggory flashed Merrythought a smile as he rubbed his hands together.

"Actually," he said, stealing a glance at Harry, "it's what I can do you for."

Merrythought snorted, crossing her arms. "This is for your Cockleford Award, isn't it Diggory?"

"Nah, 'course not," Diggory replied, shaking his head. Merrythought arched an eyebrow.

"All right, maybe a _little_," he said, pressing his thumb with his index finger. "But it's for the good of the Squad, I promise!"

Merrythought jutted out her chin. "I'm listening."

"Well, me and Roger are done for today, so let me take Potter off your hands." He firmly patted Harry on the head. "Ease his - erm - integration into the Squad, and all that good stuff."

"Please stop patting my head," said Harry, wincing.

Merrythought frowned for a second. "What's your record now, Diggory? Twelve for two?"

"For comps?" asked Diggory, his smile broadening. "Twelve for one, Coach. The other one was a default."

"A loss is a loss, my dear," she replied with a hand wave. "But I could use a break. Hm... you play Seeker at Quidditch, don't you?"

Diggory's smile faltered somewhat. "Ahm - yes, Madam."

"Perfect!" she said, beaming. "Potter's working on his eye contact 'til whistle-time. I want him to thrash the competition after holidays are over."

Harry whirled around. "After- "

"Have fun, boys!" And with that, Merrythought was off, leaving a shellshocked Harry with the giddy-looking Diggory.

"Best be getting started, then?" said the older Hufflepuff, waggling his eyebrows as he twirled his wand.

"I guess," muttered Harry, climbing back onto the platform, "but I actually need to see this time, remember."

Diggory sniggered as he followed Harry's lead.

"Right then, Potter! You've got your Squire's Square down?" Harry nodded. "Good stuff. We'll start you off with the Puzzler."

"The Pounding Hex is my best spell so far, though," he replied. "Can't we start off with that?"

Diggory stared blankly at him for a moment.

"Suit yourself," he eventually said. "So... number one advantage to keeping up footwork?"

"To break your opponent's eye contact."

Diggory gave him a thumbs up. "Just what I'll be doing. I want you to point your wand upwards, to the floor, the Hex-Zappers - just not on me. Point with your eyes, got it?"

Harry tightened his grip on the handle of his wand, flipping it backwards.

_"Ooh,"_ breathed his wand. _"I like a wizard who can take charge."_

_Are you always this corny?_

_"Only for you, my lovable idiot."_

"I'll stick with deflections for the first few," said Diggory, adjusting his stance. "Come at me when you're ready."

It was a strange sensation to get used to, if only because of the foolish position of his wand hand. But after a half-dozen tries, Harry was surprised by how little the wand's orientation mattered. As long as he kept a track of Diggory's movements (which was easier said than done, to be fair), his spells never strayed far away. It had its limits, however; '_Propulso_' was considerably more difficult to pull off, as Harry's line of sight often followed the parrying motion he made with his wand.

Harry was grateful for Diggory's help, but he wasn't very fond of the Hufflepuff's sudden interest in him. The events in the Dungeon still fresh in his mind, he promptly made his leave as soon as Merrythought blew the whistle.

"So you see why I tried to ease you in with Puzzlers, right?" said Cedric, his breath shallow as he paced to keep up with Harry's strides. "Diffuse-type spells are great for practising that kind- "

Harry spun around, staring the older student into silence. He didn't feel especially confident - Diggory had half a foot on him, at least - but he valued his space above all else.

"Look, Diggory- "

"Cedric."

"Pleasure," said Harry, his eyes wandering towards a group of Ravenclaw pupils further down the corridor. "It was fun practising and all, but I've really got to be going now."

Cedric grimaced. "This is about the initiation, isn't it?"

"Well yeah, of course," replied Harry matter-of-factly. "If you wanted me to join, why not just ask?"

Cedric's eyes glazed over; it took a few seconds for him to find his voice. "But it's... it's tradition," he said, limply gesturing at nothing in particular.

"I've heard as much," grumbled Harry, remembering his conversation with Dumbledore from the other day. "So what now?"

The Hufflepuff puffed out his chest. "Well," he said, spreading out his arms, "I'm your new Squad mentor!"

Harry gawked at him. "_You _are?" he said, puzzled. Cedric looked a little put out, so he added, "I mean, you're really good, but why not a seventh-year? Or a fifth-year, even?"

"Chief's orders," replied Cedric, smirking at Harry's look of bewilderment. "You'll meet him at the end of the year."

Harry shook his head; he enjoyed a good mystery, but he was convinced that every other tradition or custom at Hogwarts was confusing by design. What he gained from being blindfolded was anyone's guess but his.

"I know, Harry," he said, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder, "I know some of my housemates can be a little- "

"Foul?"

Cedric chuckled. "I was going to say rash, actually. Most 'Puffs have a certain way of seeing things. But we're not that rotten, trust me!"

"Maybe," said Harry, his gaze firm, but he held out a hand in reconciliation. "I do appreciate the help, Cedric, just so you know."

The Hufflepuff pumped it twice. 'Just make sure you don't black out in the February friendlies,' he said evenly.

Harry gulped. "You mean Merrythought wasn't joking? I'm playing after the holidays?"

Cedric went on his way, laughing down the corridor all the while.

"That's not fair, Diggory!" yelled Harry. "Why doesn't anyone tell me _anything_?"

Cedric only laughed harder.

* * *

"I'm taking it home, Seamus- "

"We _need _it, Nev!"

"I don't want Ogden touching it. He's weird."

"Ah, he's all right! Isn't he, lads?"

No one dared respond at first. Of their small circle, Harry and Seamus were probably the most accommodating to Randall Ogden. Informally known as the sacrificial lamb of Potioneering, their fellow Gryffindor was painfully shy and hadn't made any friends throughout the term. Arjan, one of his dorm mates, had only made matters worse by spreading rumours concerning Randall's alleged sleep-talking.

Several names were implicated, Neville being one of the few boys mentioned. Suffice it to say, he didn't take it well.

"I wouldn't worry about your Wireless, Neville," said Harry, yawning as he thumbed a page of _Muses for Transformation: The Essential Catalogue. _"Randall's going home for the holidays too. To people who appreciate him, I might add."

Seamus giggled. "Better shape up, Nev," he said, jostling the blond wizard. "Can't go around smack-talkin' Harry's man, now."

The other boys sniggered.

"I'm going to miss you lot," drawled Harry, clapping his book shut as he vaulted his four-poster bed.

"Where you off to?" asked Ron.

"Common Room," Harry replied with a lazy wave. "A little more festive, and likely a lot more dignified."

Shutting the door to shield himself from the barrage of _'oohs' _and a Quaffle-sized pile of Neville's socks, Harry trotted downstairs towards the armchair right next to the fire. Greeted by the aroma of mince pies and pine trees, Harry beamed as he admired the parade of dancing fairy lights; he was more than faintly amused by the horde of second-years attempting to capture the poor creatures.

Unfortunately for him, his coveted spot had already been claimed.

"Ah! Miss Granger," he called to the mass of bushy brown hair which was bent over an impressively thick tome. "Bit of light reading?"

Hermione glanced up at him with an upturned smile.

"Really?" she said, her eyes darting to the book he was holding.

"This is actually a book, mind you," said Harry as he sank into a nearby settee. "Reasonable length of pages, fits in my hands, doesn't cut off the circulation to my legs- "

Hermione threw a cushion at him.

"Not very sporting," he grumbled, though he was more than glad to find Hermione in ostensibly good spirits. They had only spoken a handful of times outside of class since Samhain evening, and the conversation was noticeably stilted.

"So what are you reading, anyway?" he asked.

"You wouldn't like it," she said, chewing her lip as she lifted the cover. "Hymns for Theurgy."

Harry chuckled. He made an extra effort to apply himself in the subject following Memorial Day, if only in an effort to discover how the magic worked in contrast to Sorcery. He still felt a resistance within himself that he couldn't completely shake off, especially when attempting the Rituals in class, but 'appealing to the Wild' as Professor Veness put it was somewhat less of a struggle. She seemed impressed with his progress on the Boon of Hearing, as well.

"I'm coming to terms with it," he replied airily, his eyes following a screaming George Weasley as the red haired third-year was chased by a speeding bush of mistletoe.

"Angelina, right?" he asked Hermione. She grinned back.

"Pretty cool Jinx, that," he said, scanning the Common Room for any sign of the Chaser. "I'd hate to be on the receiving end."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Yet you have no problem getting yourself Hexed every week?"

"That's completely different."

Hermione let out a harsh laugh. "Hardly," she said, "I heard about your little run-in with the Duelling Squad seniors."

"Cedric's a third y- " Harry shot back, though he frowned after stopping himself. "Wait. How do _you _know about that?"

"_Cedric,_ Harry? Stockholm syndrome much?" Rolling her eyes at Harry's stony-faced look, Hermione snapped her book shut with a sigh.

"Lisa told me," she said. "They weren't very discreet about carrying you off, were they?"

"That they weren't," Harry said dryly. "It's like they didn't even care about getting caught. Tracey told Professor Snape after it happened - he didn't seem to mind, apparently."

"Is that really shocking, Harry?" said Hermione languidly.

He gazed at the fire, shuddering slightly at the memory of Snape's magma-like face.

He gave Hermione a wry smile. "Not really, no."

They fell quiet for a while, Harry gazing back into the fire while Hermione returned to her colossal hymnal.

"Harry?" Hermione eventually said.

"Hm?"

Her brow wrinkled. "Are you going to be okay? On your own, I mean."

He hadn't given it much thought; less than a tenth of their House would be staying at the Castle for the winter break. Seamus was technically joining Harry, but he would likely be visiting his mother's flat in Hogsmeade.

"It's no bother," he said, stretching out his limbs on the settee. "I have no idea how wizards do Christmas. Or Yule."

Hermione winced slightly. "That's pretty much what I was getting at."

As December rolled on, Harry was often reminded of his friends back home. Christmas at St. Cecilia's was rarely dull (especially when broccoli was on the menu) even without the bundles of presents that the schoolkids with parents received. At that moment in time, Harry would probably be in the garden with Greg and Phil, stealing soap powder from the kitchens in a futile attempt to bring a 'White Christmas' to Oakwood.

He hoped that they would be doing the same this year.

Harry rose from his seat. "Are you off already?" asked Hermione, her brow furrowing deeper in concern.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "It's snowing pretty heavily out there. You coming?"

Hermione drew a tired breath, setting the enormous text aside.

"Why not?" she said with a very toothy grin of her own.

* * *

**A/N: **Cheers for reading! Many thanks to the reviews and PMs for the last chapter, namely from _rosenthalblau_, _htbhp_, _GinnyLover14_ and _drakeclc_. Comments/suggestions are welcomed and encouraged.

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."


	13. Algie Tells A Tale

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Harry does some star-gazing, Neville entertains some Christmas guests, and Dumbledore receives a house-call.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen - Algie Tells A Tale**

_The Holly-king Herne is the Lord of the Hunt  
And a grump of a king is He,  
But He runs through beasts and He whittles down trees  
Bringing gifts for you and me!_

~Constance Figg, c. 1770

* * *

"Potter... Vernon and Petunia, laid to rest on August 7th 1983... "

Kneeling before the headstone, Harry traced a hand over its stained copper lettering. Its words were garbled as he lifted his fingers, the green-flecked metal having warped beyond recognition.

"Dursley," he whispered. "You went by _Dursley."_

"What nonsense is that?"

His vigil broken, Harry rounded on the source of the intrusion. His mouth fell agape.

"Y-you... you can't_\- "_

"Can't what, boy?"

Harry adamantly pointed towards the headstone which, when he glanced back, was no longer there. The rest of the cemetery had disappeared too, leaving little else besides clumps of shedding woodland shrubs.

"But... " He stared at the intruder in disbelief. The beefy frame, pink face and moustachioed grin were unmistakable.

"_Dad?_"

His father snorted, clipping Harry around the ear with sausage-like fingers. "Who else? Let's get a move on - can't miss out on the picnic, can we?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play daft, boy! You love our picnics. Now let's get in the car and- "

"What car?"

Harry received as he had asked: a shiny, red, and very familiar five-seater was parked in the distance.

Its pristine condition was chilling to say the least.

"Vernon?" called a voice from the car. "Vernon! What's keeping you two?"

A long, thin face framed by curly blond hair poked out from the driver's window, revealing a pair of almond-shaped eyes which were narrowed in bemusement.

His mother's eyes.

"Coming, Pet!" his father shouted back, giving Harry an urging look.

Harry swallowed. "Wh-where's Dudley?" His father looked unimpressed.

Harry wanted to go with them; he would want for nothing else, but this... this wasn't real.

"Well?" said his father, grinning as he crossed his arms. "Unless you'd rather spend the night here."

Even if he wasn't real, Harry saw his point. He smiled at his father, his question of where they even were on the tip of his tongue before he was beaten to the punch.

"Harry?" echoed a voice from behind them. "Where are you going?"

As he looked over his shoulder, Harry swore in shock.

The woodland was gone. The facade of Hogwarts Castle stood firm in its place, and a flowery-robed Professor Dumbledore strode towards them, his features strained with panic.

"Harry," he said, his hands outstretched, "you must return to the Castle. Wherever they plan to take you, it is not safe- "

"You!" His father's face darkened as he levelled a finger at the old wizard. "You have _no _right!"

Dumbledore exhaled. He smiled at the younger, far larger man, though his eyes were unusually dull.

"I am afraid, Vernon, that I have every right. Harry's welfare is my responsibility, in accordance with his parents' wishes."

"Then who am I?" Harry's father flung an arm in the car's direction. "Who are_ we_?"

"You cared for Harry," said Dumbledore, nodding slightly, 'and we owe you so much, but he is your charge no longer. He must live with his own kind- '

"_We_ are his kind!" his father thundered, nostrils flaring as he squared his shoulders. "And if you think you're getting away with this, I'll- "

"You'll do sweet eff-eay, Dursley!"

The trio's eyes fell upon the newest entry to the debate. A tall, thin, bespectacled wizard with lightly tanned skin and messy black hair bounded towards them, his wand aloft.

It was James Potter, his birth father: fully grown and fiery-tempered.

Vernon scoffed. "You don't scare me with that thing, cretin!"

"_Cretin_?" said James, eyes narrowed. "You've got some right nerve- "

Dumbledore cleared his throat loudly. "Gentlemen," he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "We each hope to reach a meaningful resolution, I am sure. It is only reasonable that the one to choose... should be Harry."

Harry made an incredulous noise. "Me? You said I had to stay just a minute ago."

"I stand by my judgement," replied Dumbledore, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder as he knelt before him. "And yet, I would dread the outcome were I to act against your own wishes. Only you will live this life, Harry. Only _you _can know what is best."

"You'll make the right decision, Harry," said James, winking as he brandished his wand. "I mean, this is your birthright. A Potter needs a wand- "

"Come off it," snarled Vernon, spinning Harry on the spot so that they were face-to-face.

"Potters don't need twigs, boy! We use _these_," he said, gripping Harry's hands for a moment before prodding his temple, "and _this._ You always had a wild imagination, and that's a good thing, no doubt - but we all need to grow up someday, don't we?"

"You what_, _mate?" said James, baring his teeth. "Fatten up _my _boy, will you?"

Vernon snorted. "If you think he's gonna become some kind of twig-waving... freak! And look at _you. _Rake of a weirdo, you are- "

"To Hell with this - you asked for it!"

A shotgun blast erupted from the smoking tip of James' wand. Vernon recoiled and grunted in pain, but it didn't stop him from pouncing on the thinner man.

Harry reached out towards them, but he felt a strong hand clasp his shoulder once more.

"I am sorry, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "There is nothing we can do for them."

"But they're _hurting _each other!" Harry waved a frantic hand at his brawling fathers. Vernon was clearly winning.

"Such is the fate of Muggles and wizards," said the Headmaster, sounding almost forlorn as they watched Vernon rain blow after blow on the helpless wizard beneath him. "You must make a choice, Harry, and quickly. Time waits for no man: magic or no magic."

"Harr-_ack_!" gargled James, struggling to lift up his head as Vernon pummelled him. "You need to- "

"He won't forget!" wailed Vernon, tears streaming down his puce-coloured cheeks. "He'll _never _forget!"

"_DAD!_"

* * *

They were gone, and Harry was in bed.

He remembered more of his Muggle parents than previously thought, it seemed.

Thankfully, the rest of his dorm mates had left the night before, with Seamus having opted to stay with his mother in Hogsmeade, so he was saved any embarrassment for his outburst. On the other hand, he was left alone with the ghosts of his fathers' battle cries, however imagined they may have been. He sat up for an age that night, thinking of the Dursleys, who were long gone. Of Dudley, whom he might never meet. Of Phil, Greg, Alice and everything in Oakwood, which hadn't forgotten him yet, but over time...

_I _have _to go back._

* * *

"All of these holidays - Christmas, Yule... Saturnalia, you said? And you get presents for each one? I haven't gotten a gift since I can remember... "

"Oh, I don't know about that. You might expect a couple though, at the very least!"

Ambling the snow-capped Castle grounds with Professor Doge was not exactly what Harry had in mind for the winter break, but an empty dorm and padlocked Duelling Studio left him with a limited palette of options. Truth be told, he promised Hermione that he would give _Groundbreaking Enchantments: The Muggleite School of Artificing _a read, though Doge actually served as a welcome distraction.

The first successful enchantment of pig's leather may well have been 'groundbreaking', but it was far from the most riveting magical feat in history in Harry's opinion.

Far more interesting to the last Potter was Doge's mention of the Crucible - the Potters' ancestral home - which was due for renovation once the Ministry handed its keys to Professor Dumbledore in the New Year. With the events of last night's dream still fresh in his mind, he felt the occasional pang of guilt, but he couldn't deny himself the right to embrace his wizarding roots.

"So what does it look like? I wonder how big it is... Ron says that _his_ house has a Quidditch pitch, but it couldn't be the size of the Castle's, could it?"

The Professor let out a wheezy laugh. "You must slow down, my boy," he said, patting Harry on the head (which was even more annoying than before, given that Harry had apparently grown an inch taller since their visit to Diagon Alley). "I might be old, but I'm not _that _wise. Very few wizards born outside of the West Country ever come across the Crucible."

"How come?" asked Harry, arching an eyebrow. "You make it sound as if that's deliberate, sir."

Doge sniggered.

"Well it's Unplottable for one," he said, turning around to point a finger at the Castle. "Just as we are, right now. Secondly, it belongs to one of the old Chief Houses - for Dumnonia to be exact. You understand that much, I'm sure?" Harry nodded. "Right. The Keys to Dumnonia rest at the plot of the Crucible, so only wizards from the region have a need to go there - and only a few of them at that."

"Why?"

"What _are _they teaching you in History, my boy?" asked Doge, his brow furrowed.

Harry winced. "We only read History for one of the Week Two lessons," he said, looking away from the old wizard. "Mrs Plinny teaches Culture for the rest of the timetable."

"Let's hope you take up my History class come your third year, hm?" Doge said with an impish grin. "Right - well, as I'm sure you must know, we started hiding from the Muggles long before the Statute was established. It goes far further than that, my boy, and quite a ways east."

"East?"

"_East,_" said Doge gravely, flicking a finger in that direction. "After the Goths invaded Scythia many ages ago, their kings exiled the very class that helped them triumph."

"Witches," whispered Harry, unsure if the chill that ran down his spine was a product of the bitingly cold wind or the morbid shift in conversation.

Doge grunted in affirmation. "Centuries passed, and the other tribes in Europe - all over, really - caught on. They weren't as forgiving as the Goths were, unfortunately, so we had to literally run for our lives at that point. Until we got tired, that is.

"You see, Harry, wand magic wasn't new by any means, but there were even fewer wizards than now who had the knack for it. Those who did were appointed as the warlock-chieftains who protected our kind, like the ancestors of the Smiths, the Urquharts, and yes - the Potters. Some communities eventually garnered enough numbers to build artifices - bound by the blood of their elders - which hid and even created pockets of space separate from Muggles, and the rest is... well, history!"

"Crikey," said Harry, watching his icy breath fritter away as he mulled over the old wizard's tale. While he had several reservations about the teacher, Professor Doge really knew his stuff. "So that's where the Chief-wizard thing comes from."

"The jist of it, I suppose," replied Doge, scratching his head. "Things are different now... politics is ever-changing, on the face of things. Still, the Crucible stands to this day. Unlike the Blacks' homes, which get picked up and tossed like underwear. It's a good thing that we don't rely on the Essex Keys much, I tell you."

"A witch's most powerful weapon," said Harry, reminded of Mrs Plinny's lecture some time ago.

Doge giggled. "Oh yes, but none of them hold a candle to this one right here!"

A small smile crept upon Harry's face as they gazed at the Castle towers.

"Fair point, sir. I've been living at Hogwarts for months now, and I still manage to get lost once a week."

Doge inhaled deeply, hands on hips as he regarded the grounds.

'It all comes with experience, my boy,' he said, patting Harry on the back. "You've an adventurous mind, Harry - why not put it to use?"

Harry made a face. "Where would I even start?"

Doge hummed in thought. "I say... first-years don't read Astronomy, do they?"

"It's not in my Almanac. The star-charts are, but... "

Doge grinned. "The Astronomy Tower it is, then! The next few nights should be clear enough. Oh, it's a _beautiful _sight, my boy!"

"Isn't it out of bounds, sir?"

The wispy-haired old wizard guffawed. "I've no idea what you're talking about. Now Godric's Hollow was, contrary to the term, likely founded by a quarter-troll witch by the name of Gwennol the Ghastly... "

* * *

_"Nox," _whispered Harry, and the lime-green beads of light surrounding the tip of his wand extinguished themselves with a faint _plop_.

True to Doge's ramblings, the Astronomy Tower was a wondrous spectacle indeed, and was well worth the hassle of sneaking around at night - though the fact that most of the Prefects were at home made navigating to the tallest tower in the Castle a far easier feat.

It was somewhat reminiscent of the circular theme in the Head's Office in respects to the dome-shaped ceiling, while the oak floorboards below resembled a spiral galaxy converging at the iron sundial at the centre of the room. The most fascinating feature, however, lay outdoors. Once again, Doge was right: despite the snowfall during the day, there wasn't a cloud in sight, leaving a clear view of the lustering firmament on the far side of the Tower.

There was little use for wands and talismans in Astronomy from what Hermione had told him, but the rousing magic of the skies was readily apparent to Harry that evening. He wasn't sure how much time had passed while he revelled in the scene before him, elbows perched on the mammoth window-sill as he sat on a pile of textbooks, though he was caught completely unawares by the quiet yet jarring snigger behind him.

"Didn't take you for a romantic, Potter."

Harry almost jolted in his makeshift seat, his head whipping around to meet the amused stare of one Daphne Greengrass.

He frowned at her. "What are you on about?"

Greengrass huffed, following Harry's suit by dumping a wooden stool in front of the window-sill.

"So clueless."

Harry's lip curled as she sat on the stool. "I didn't want to disrupt the floor plan. Even if we are on holiday... "

"Not _that_." Greengrass sighed. "How can you not know about the Astronomy Tower?"

"I am here, so- "

She looked at him askance. "I'm talking about what it's for, Potter."

"Star-gazing," Harry deadpanned. "It's in the name."

Greengrass sighed again. It was beginning to grate on Harry's nerves.

_"She's almost as dramatic as you," _purred his wand.

_Shut it._

"Just as I said," she muttered, crossing her arms. "Clueless."

"So?" said Harry after a moment. "You aren't going to tell me?"

Greengrass arched an eyebrow. "Why should I? You're obviously here for a different reason."

"It's a nice view," Harry mumbled, shrugging. "So I was told, anyway."

Greengrass chuckled darkly. "That's what the others say."

"What others? Would you just spit it out already?"

Greengrass' eyes fluttered open. "Blimey Potter," she said, placing a hand on her chest. "Such fire! You really _are _a romantic."

Harry promptly stood up, straightening his robes as he turned to leave.

"C'mere," Greengrass said in-between giggles, patting the vacant stool. "Sit back down! I'm only winding you up."

_"Oh, how the tables have turned!" _Harry ignored his wand as he reluctantly returned to his seat. He admitted to himself, albeit grudgingly, that he was receiving his just desserts after their first meeting at the Lake.

Greengrass sat up straight. "Just as I said, it's a haven for hopeless romantics. You know - of the 'trashy witches' novel' kind?"

"Er... "

"Think mistletoe," she said breathlessly, gesturing at the ceiling, at the floor, and finally at the stars outside. "But everywhere. Every day of the year. In this Tower, Potter, stars _are _mistletoe."

Out of the blue, Harry felt an abrupt shock of heat rising past his neck. "Wow, I - never really thought- "

"And I never did thank you for trying to save me that night... _Harry._"

His wand felt like it was on fire. _"Is this - is she for _real_, idiot?"_

Harry squirmed, willing himself with all his might to not turn around. He wouldn't be moved, he _couldn't _be, after everything she had said about Hermione...

"Harry," she said softly, gently grazing his cheek with a hand, "there's no need to be shy, especially when you were nothing but _brave, _and- "

It had to happen at some point; Phil and Greg said it would. Balling his fists as tightly as he could, Harry mustered every ounce of courage as he levelled his gaze at the Slytherin witch... whose impression of a dead Clabbert was remarkably on-model.

Greengrass cackled as her victim leapt away in an avalanche of robes and starcharts.

"That was," started Harry, panting as he tried to recover his wits, "you're a- "

"A genius, I know!" replied Greengrass, flicking her curls with a lazy palm. "Just goes to show that there's no such thing as a selfless hero, eh Potter?"

_"Bravo,"_ breathed his wand,_ "or should I say _Brava?_"_

Harry himself said nothing, choosing to glower at her instead as he rearranged the stack of Astronomy books.

"You're not leaving, then?" asked Greengrass, a jaunty lilt to her tone as she watched him return to his seat.

Harry fixed his gaze to the window. "I'd rather not give you the satisfaction."

It was an empty remark; Greengrass was satisfied by all means. The complete role-reversal from the Lake incident was astounding, if not humbling, and Harry was grateful that no one else was present.

"Save it Potter," she said. "It's not like you fancy me or anything."

"You're right, because I don't," said Harry bluntly, his posture firm as he tried his utmost to focus his attention on the view which, minus the company, was the stuff of fantasy.

"Of course not. That burden's been left to Tracey."

Harry clenched his jaw. "You what?"

Greengrass pinched his cheek. "You are so _easy, _Potty!"

"Please stop, Greengrass," he groaned, swatting her hand. "It's Christmas tomorrow."

"Fine, _fine!" _she said, huffing as she threw her arms up in defeat. "Rain on my parade, why don't you?"

Harry rubbed his chin as he scrutinised her. "Come to think of it," he said, "why _are_ you here anyway? Shouldn't you be celebrating Yule or something with your family?"

Greengrass cocked her head to the side. "So you aren't enjoying my company, then?"

Harry remained silent.

"We celebrate both," she said evenly. 'Daddy has work in Bavaria, and it's just happened to overrun this year, so he's spending the holidays cooped up a luxury inn with my mother and sister... "luxury" to the dwarves isn't worth two Knuts from what he's told me.'

From what he knew of dwarves in fairy-tales, Harry was inclined to agree.

"Six in ten, Potter." Greengrass said after a while.

"Eh?"

"Six in ten British witchfolk meet their intended at school," she clarified. "I read it in _Witch Weekly_."

Harry shifted in his seat. "That sounds really high. Why are you telling me this?"

Greengrass waggled her eyebrows at him. "Because we're in the Astronomy Tower, Potty! It's said to be one of the most romantic teen hotspots on the Isles. Who knows, maybe you'll take Tracey up here one day!"

"Please shut up."

* * *

With no one to wake him, no classes to prepare for and several hours' rest to reclaim after his late-night tour of the Castle, Harry slept in obscenely late on Christmas morning. When he finally roused himself from his slumber, he was greeted by a small pile of packages lying at the foot of his four-poster bed. It was an odd experience; Harry was used to receiving nothing at all, and being surrounded by his equally giftless, though by no means joyless friends. This Christmas would be, for now, the exact opposite.

Deciding to work his way down from the largest to the smallest, Harry picked up a bulky red package, which featured dozens of pointy-eared creatures in tiny tunics running over the wrapping paper. The note attached to it was signed by Hermione, Ron and his parents, and stamped with a Ministry of Magic letterhead. He was treated to quite the bundle of sweets: a box of homemade fudge, Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and, strangely enough, an emerald-green handknit sweater which fit Harry perfectly. He resolved to write a thank-you letter at the earliest opportunity.

The next gift, a long cylindrical package, came from Neville: a moving poster of the _Forty-Nine Greatest Level Zero Grand Circuit Knockouts of 1990-1. _Number Eleven became a fast favourite, in which the French Suzette Belrose cast a Sliding Charm on Englishman Oscar Peasegood's boots. What would have been a humiliating defeat on its own was exacerbated to comical effect by Peasegood, who tried to tap-dance his way out of the spell and subsequently knocked himself out cold.

Professor Doge had given him a hat and a pair of gloves, both of which he claimed were made from mokeskin, while Pansy made good on her promise: her father baked Harry a batch of Treacle Tarts with Christmas tree-shaped pastries. Of course, it wasn't really a present, as he considered himself wholly responsible for Pansy's last two _E-_graded Cardinals essays.

_Hope Hermione never finds out about that... she'd be livid._

Somewhat surprisingly, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall had bought a joint present, alongside what must have been about a month's supply of Chocolate Frogs from his sweet-toothed guardian. The Cratyloid, as it was named in the letter, was a pewter replica of what Harry knew to be Cratylus' Fractal, a chart of infinite rings and spokes which was 'almost unanimously recognised by wizards as the unifying visual representation of Transfiguration theory', according to _A Beginner's Guide. _On reflection, Harry thought it may have been at Miss Pleasant's behest - the Sorcery teacher showed less patience for his questions during class as of late.

In a similar fashion to Cratylus' Fractal, rotating the correct combination of spokes and rings - each of which was designated a unique syllable or symbol - would reveal a potentially successful spell model, with one major difference: Harry's first bout of tinkering with the Cratyloid actually caused it to ripple and writhe as it burped out the ethereal image of a wooden crow, struggling in vain to flap its starch-stiff wings. He resisted the urge to mess around with it further until after breakfast.

The final gift was a thin, plain parcel of modest weight. It was accompanied by a torn piece of parchment, bearing a note written in a harried and tiny style:

_Your father left this in my possession before he died._

_It is time it was returned to you. Use it well._

It was left unsigned. After feverishly unwrapping the parcel, Harry was presented with a tatty, maroon leather-bound book. The cover, just as bereft of markings as its packaging, revealed no secrets, and its pages were blank - except for the final leaf, which was covered in bloodied fingerprints.

Harry dropped the book as quickly as he had grasped it. It was a cruel excuse for a joke.

Wasn't it? Why would his father leave him something like this?

_"Maybe it's all about blood," _murmured his wand as it lay on the bed beside him.

'What do you mean?' Harry said aloud.

_"Like Draco said, idiot. Blood is magic."_

Harry's eyes widened at the epiphany. He reached for the dog-eared book once more, taking a deep breath of trepidation as he turned back to the bloodstained page. It wasn't harmful, surely? After all, it would have had a hard time escaping the all-seeing probes of Mr Pringle, or the Headmaster, no less. But Harry was aware of so-called Sanguine Rituals from his not-completely-futile efforts to improve his performance in Theurgy, and if his suspicions were correct, the leather-bound book functioned along a similar set of principles.

Magic involving blood wasn't inherently Dark; he doubted that dragon's blood would be such a popular potions ingredient were that the case, but it was nonetheless a practice that Harry was uncomfortable with. Offering one's own bodily fluids in general was a highly symbolic gesture according to _Elementary Theurgica_, and especially so in regards to the concept of kinship.

"I need to unlock it," he said, jumping off of his bed to rummage through his trunk in search of one of his unused engravers. The Severing Charm wasn't exactly beyond Harry's aptitude, but he doubted that he was proficient enough for such a delicate operation.

Pricking the tip of his non-wand thumb with the silver graver, he allowed the blood to run until it covered the area of his print.

"Here goes," he said, gulping as he pressed his thumb to the page. "This _can't_ be hygienic."

He waited for five seconds, then ten. The bloodied page lay flat, stubbornly unchanged.

"But what would be the point... ?" he groused, flipping through the fraying leaves again in search of something he might have missed.

And there it was: a single handwritten sentence on the front page. The ink - if it even_ was _ink - was dry, as if the message had been there the whole time.

_That tasted familiar. What is your name?_

Plucking out a quill and a bottle of ink from his trunk, Harry licked his lips as he prepared his answer.

_Harry James Potter. What's yours?_

The first sentence sharply faded as though the ink had been forcefully scraped away, leaving space for a new message to bleed into the page.

_Did you see one on the cover?_

Harry arched an eyebrow before scribbling another reply.

_No, but you asked for mine. It's only fair that you give me something in return._

Several moments passed before the book gave a response.

_Just press your thumb on the back next time. No need for blood, I always remember after the first._

"Erm, fair play- "

The dog-eared book sprung into action. Pages were tossed and turned as words and diagrams etched themselves into the paper, mark by mark, until it floated back into its groove on the bed. Harry sucked in a breath as he read the foreword of sorts on the front page.

_Congratulations, Harry James: the Grimoire has tasted your blood and deemed it worthy. Contained within these pages are the records of our family's best kept secrets, handed down from Potter to Potter for generations. It is a treasure beyond all others, and its contents are to be shared with none save those who pass this test. Please guard this text for all the days of your life, and endeavour to pass it along before you meet your death._

* * *

Christmas at the Longbottom household was a 'holiday' in naught but name.

Many British wizarding clans were known to observe the winter mysteries in a mixture of Christian and indigenous European forms for centuries, yet the otherwise customary exchanging of gifts was conspicuously absent from Falconry House, and had been for as long as one could trace back the family tree. Instead, for many well-off wizards, Christmas Day was reserved for giving to those who could not, and the Longbottoms, Key-holding House in Elmet as they were, would be expected to lead by example.

Neville's great-uncle called it 'assuaging the guilt of privilege'. Whatever it meant, it always put his Gran in a foul mood.

In the eight years since his parents' deaths, Neville hadn't received a single present from his grandmother. His Great-Uncle Algie would indulge him every year (more like every other week), but his Gran refused to budge. Not that he resented her for it. Augusta Longbottom just didn't do Christmas, or birthdays for that matter, unless he counted his wand or the family Grimoire. She looked fit to burst with pride that week.

That being said, he never really wanted for anything. Neville lived a life of convenience; his great-uncle never refused a request, and Gran allowed him to play in the greenhouse to his heart's content... for the most part.

"I suppose you'll want to visit that Abbott girl," said Gran, dusting off her cloak as they stepped out of the fireplace that afternoon.

"Yes please, Gran," he replied, nodding tightly. "First thing tomorrow, if I can. I'll be back before dusk."

His grandmother hummed. "Of course you will. Now go get cleaned up - turkey should be ready within the hour!"

Neville bowed slightly, heading to the bathroom at a brisk pace.

"Oh," she called, "and Neville?"

"Yes, Gran?"

She smiled cordially. "You did good today, lad. Your parents would've been proud."

Neville seriously doubted that. Alice and Frank Longbottom spilled their lifeblood for the Union; carrying a sack of trinkets to a couple of orphanages wasn't an ordeal by any stretch of the imagination.

In a stark contrast to the lack of stockings filled with presents, Christmas dinner at the Longbottom residence was treated as a compulsory activity, and distant family from all over the country flocked to Falconry House each year without fail. Nana Grace, his maternal grandmother, had even taken to bringing the entirety of the Wood side along with her since before he was born. His grandmothers were thick as thieves, but Neville couldn't say the same for himself and his other relatives.

His cousin Oliver, a fifth-year at Hogwarts and star Keeper for the First Seven was a classic example. He didn't dislike Oliver; the older wizard always went out of his way to acknowledge him whether they were in the Common Room or on the grounds, but his obsession with trying to get Neville on the Quidditch Pitch bordered on insane. That it almost cost him his life at the age of four ("Don't look down, Nev, that's the only rule!") was a red-flag moment for Neville, although his family were ecstatic: it was his first of several bouts of accidental magic, and Oliver received his spanking with pride.

The only relative whose company Neville genuinely and unwaveringly enjoyed was that of his Great-Uncle Algie. The last remaining Croaker was a very popular wizard, mostly because he "roamed every circle worth nattering about", in his Gran's words. It was true; his uncle's social life consisted of weekly chess games with Barty Crouch, the odd lunch with Sir Albus, and all of those exclusive clubs like the one named after a macaque.

_At least I _think _it was a macaque..._

In any case, it was on days such as these when his Uncle Algie's fables truly shined, and this particular holiday was no exception.

"Now the thing you have to understand about Eric Munch," he said that evening, unaware of the dozen pairs of eyes watching him as he sliced through a cut of turkey, "is that he's a wizard with a price. All wizards are, of course, but Eric's got... an _acquired_ taste, shall we say- "

"I haven't a clue where this is going, Algie," Gran said primly, "but we do have children present, if you'd be kind enough to remember."

"Come on, Aunty Gusta," said Oliver, winking at the older witch who wrinkled her nose in disgust. ''We're all tall enough to ride the broom - well, except Nev of course."

Neville clenched his teeth as he tried to ignore the ensuing jeers from both ends of the table.

"Leave him be, Ollie," his Aunt Jean said through a giggle, chastising her son with a light tap on the shoulder. "Go on, Algie - what happened in the end?"

Uncle Algie's head popped up from his meal. "Oh? Ah... yes, I paid him off."

The guests were left in a stunned silence; Neville took it upon himself to break it.

"Er - Uncle Algie?"

The older wizard chuckled, flashing a set of pearly-white teeth as he regarded his nephew. "Eric's had a back problem from a bad Curse a few years back... you heard about that, Madge?"

A portly old witch to his Gran's left - his Great-Aunt Madge - gave his uncle an airy nod, which he returned with a toothy grin.

"That's right - so I arranged him an all-expenses paid trip to a Singing Sulphur hot-springs resort in St Lucia, and asked him to tinker about with that little voice spell on the receiver to seal the deal. Long story short, that lovely-sounding lady at the Ministry refers to our dear pal as Albert _Bumcorn- " _the whole table erupted with laughter at that point, "- and it's staying that way for two months, because the receiver only responds to Eric's wand!"

His great-uncle was generally tight-lipped about life at the Ministry, let alone his work as an Unspeakable. But if one thing was clear, it was that Algernon Croaker didn't like Albert Runcorn, and Neville thought that was a big deal. His Uncle Algie poked fun at everyone, but seeing him don a genuinely sour expression like the ones he reserved for the mention of Runcorn was rarer than finding a Salmon-tipped Snapdragon in full bloom.

And that was _rare._

The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful, save the occasional off-colour joke from Oliver who, try as he might, was _not _the life and soul of the party. Before long, all but one of the guests had Flooed or Apparated home following their farewells (and generous helpings to the leftovers).

"I forgot to mention, Neville," his uncle said, twirling a glass of mulled wine as he stared into the drawing-room fire, "that your Nana told me about your progress report. Three _E_s and _A_s in the rest - well _done_, old sport!"

Neville gave him a faint smile. "Thanks, Uncle Algie. I'm hardly at the top of the class, though."

"Oh _psh, _Neville," scoffed his Gran, taking a sip from her own glass. "An _E _is a grade of stature."

"She's on the ball, you know," said his uncle, waggling a finger at his sister as he nodded at Neville. "It's the good thing about our schools: you don't get an _E _unless you're actually exceedingly good. That's why you can take an O.W.L anywhere! I was talking to a friend down at the Malaclaw, old Shimura - big on Billywig trading - anyway, _he _says the admins at Ma-No-Yama mark by number. And it goes all the way up to ten _thousand_! Can you believe that?"

Neville's grandmother snorted. "Well, that's the Chinese for you."

"Japanese, Gusta."

"All the same," she said with a wave of her hand. "They don't use wands, do they? Those sticks are _too long _to be called wands."

Neville gave his uncle a sheepish smile which was duly returned. Misguided or no, Gran's faith in her opinions was unshakeable.

"So how's that wager coming along, lad?" asked his uncle.

"Sorry? Oh." Neville's face fell slightly. "Two for five down at the moment, but I'll give him sparks next week."

Having actually made the Duelling Squad, as well as running off to wherever he did, Harry didn't show up to the Club meetings often. He promised to honour his side of the bet, but given that he was practising with Intermediate years and upwards, Neville wasn't exactly hopeful about his chances.

"It goes way back," said Gran wistfully, her eyes glinting with pride. "Your father and James Potter - a couple of years apart, but they were always at it. I daresay, had Frank ever stepped onto the Circuit... "

"Now I don't know about _that_," said Uncle Algie with a dark chuckle. "You'd have to be a fool to cross wands with Frank, but that Potter boy was insane. Literally - he was a monkey savant with a polished twig! The sorts of things he'd dream up- "

"But was he ever on the field, Algie?" his grandmother interjected, her posture hard as steel. "I can't recall him casting our colours - like Frank. I don't remember hearing about how he Shielded a score of orphans from those ghastly Albanian vampires or wherever they came from, but Frank did, didn't he?"

Neville's uncle pursed his lips into a grimace. "Maybe he didn't. We'll never know - he disappeared, off the grid with little more than a soundbite. But we found the Potters dead. In Ukraine, by Grindelwald's hand. The Union swears by that, just like they do our Frank _and_ Alice, and gave him his father's title for that reason."

"I feel terrible for Harry," Neville blurted out, and he soon felt the wrath of his guardians' eyes upon his head. "I - um, it's just that - he's always talking about how he wishes he knew more about his family. You know - he actually thought his aunt and uncle were his parents until last summer. Nuts, isn't it?"

An uncomfortable silence washed over the drawing room. Neville looked at his grandmother, chin raised high and shoulders unwavering.

She was definitely embarrassed.

"Sorry, Neville-boy," croaked Uncle Algie as he patted Neville's shoulder. "Tensions run high - it was before your time. Make no mistake, your fathers were heroes. Harry's _and _yours, never forget that."

He couldn't if he tried; photographs of his father lined Falconry House like wallpaper.

* * *

"He's _late_, Albus."

"Aurors are always late. Such is life."

"Oh hush, Elphias. No one asked you!"

Having taught Minerva for several years, and having known Elphias for many more, Albus often felt obliged to play the role of arbiter during their frequent quibbles. However, their guest was very late indeed, and he found himself being mildly entertained by the back-and-forth between the two department Heads.

"We don't show enough respect for Aurors these days," said Elphias, sighing as he glanced at his pocketwatch. "The Dark Arts can be _so_ perilous - it takes real expertise to handle them, you know? A strong stomach, too. I fancied myself as the type long ago."

Minerva stifled a snort.

"The Union was a different field back then," he continued unawares, "back when we valued our links with the East, back when you could drink at a Muggle tavern, no questions asked... you could mention Bright magic in a guildhall and no one would laugh at you- "

"Please_, _Elphias," said Minerva, exasperated. "_Please_, just stop." Elphias gave the witch a withering stare.

"See, Albus?" he hissed. "It's this attitude right here that I'm talking about!"

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "But of course," she said silkily, looking pointedly at Albus. "Intolerance to tripe is a most damnable trait, is it not?"

At that moment, Albus felt a faint thrumming sensation from the Office floor. Their guest had arrived.

"I prefer to run an open forum in these parts, Minerva," he replied with a surreptitious wink. "We might do well to postpone this debate, however - it appears that we have company. Enter!"

The oak doors screeched as they promptly parted, revealing a dark-skinned, well-built wizard. Sharply cut grey robes and a shaven head only accentuated his powerful form, and were it not for the troubled lines marring his brow and a tightly wrapped arm sling, an otherwise unacquainted wizard might find themselves to be more than a little intimidated.

"Professors," he said in a deep, calm voice, heavily contrasting against his burdened countenance. "A happy new year to you all."

"Auror Shacklebolt," Elphias and Minerva intoned in unison, their voices mere shades compared to the heat of their verbal duel mere seconds earlier.

The bald wizard withdrew a laboured breath, occupying the vacant seat between the teachers. He was evidently aware of the tension caused by his entrance, as he had the tact to crack a sheepish smile which looked rather comical for a man of his apparent age.

Albus grinned in kind. "And how is the arm, Kingsley?"

"I spoke with your man today. Healer Poke," he replied, rolling back his padded shoulder with mild effort. "He's of the opinion that I can go without the Curse-dressings by the end of the month. An ingenious piece of work, really."

"The Curse or the bandage?" asked Elphias, flinching as he met Minerva's rueful stare.

Kingsley cleared his throat. "We're on the clock, though, even if I am technically off-duty. I'm sure you understand, Headmaster?"

"Naturally."

The dark-skinned wizard exhaled again, purging himself of all inhibition before he parted his lips and sat up straight.

"Perhaps I'd better start from the top... you read the headlines last week?"

Elphias grunted the affirmative. "They implicated old Helbert Spleen, Iggy's Healer. Used to run the advice column at the _Prophet _awhile back, never thought- "

"Yes," said Kingsley, "and we're sure that Spleen brewed the mushroom concoction which triggered the Curse in that letter."

"Heinous. Truly unthinkable," muttered Minerva, eyes shimmering as she gripped the fabric of her robes.

Albus agreed; the plot was genius in a fashion that he was loath to admit. Sympathetic magic via the synthesis of potions and the written word was indicative of highly advanced and esoteric knowledge - a desire to broach connections on the most abstract of planes.

"Spleen," said Dumbledore, eyes slightly narrowed. "He was a patsy?"

Kingsley's eyes flashed for a moment, almost rivalling the glimmer of his gold hooped earring.

"You need to stop doing that, Albus."

Albus gave him a wan smile. "Foibles of a fractured blade, old friend. Please continue."

Kingsley grimaced. "Well, it's as you said. We interrogated Spleen for three hours, and he was genuinely clueless. Tested for Memory Charms and Forgetfulness Potions, even contracted a Legilimens to make sure - that's off the record, by the way. But we knew, and he acknowledged, that he personally brewed Prewett's potion. There was only one other avenue we had a chance of tracing back: one which we're still coming to terms with."

"The Imperius Curse." Minerva spat the words as one would a spoonful of spoiled milk.

"That's right," answered Kingsley, his tone plummeting by an octave. "He tested positive, right off the bat. It was cast perfectly: Spleen had no chance of remembering a thing while he was under the Curse's influence. Crouch fully handed the case over to our Office after that.

"They've spent the past twelve hours sifting through the memories the Obliviators could pluck, looking for an aberration or a gap, _something_. Proudfoot spotted it first. I've gotta say, Albus, this is pretty outlandish... "

"We are all ears, Kingsley."

Kingsley set his jaw as he met the Headmaster's eyes. "Helbert loves a drink, as we all know, but he isn't _that _bad. Holes in the Pensieve samples started popping up around three months before Prewett's death."

Minerva inhaled sharply, aghast. "He was under for that long?"

Kingsley gave her a faint nod. "They ran it back, looking for the last thing Spleen might have seen before he was hit. It led them to a seedy little shack near Wakefield - the 'Pink Puffskein'."

"Ah," Elphias mumbled, quickly reddening as the other three wizards turned to him.

He giggled nervously. "Heard about it from a fellow at the, er, Prophet."

Kingsley blinked for a moment before carrying on.

"Right - well this is where it gets a bit hazy. The Imperius tends to 'bleed' both ways, so victims have little to no recollection of events immediately before and after duration. Same with Spleen. But just before he reached his, er, booth... we saw a face. One that no one has seen in twelve years."

"Kingsley?" said Albus, leaning forward.

The Auror's eyelids strained further. He appeared conflicted; entirely baffled by his own tale.

"Pettigrew," he rasped in disbelief. "We saw Peter Pettigrew."

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Many thanks for the reviews from last month's update - special shout-outs to _flame7296, Malevolent Mind, FireAndSteel, gonziboss and sidet-ebrithil. _Next chapter should be out in a month at the most. As always, thanks for reading!


	14. Zach Plays The Dozens

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Albus watches reality TV, Harry shakes a leg, and Snape puts his foot down.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen - Zach Plays The Dozens  
**

_(Erump-o-boom Hovered towards _DONALD EVEREST_)_

EVEREST: So you've absolutely no intention of playing up [to Level Zero] next season. Is that correct, James?

POTTER: _(looks left__, coughs) _Ahm, yes. For now.

EVEREST: So what are you going to do for the next year or so?

_(short pause)_

POTTER: _(winks at _EVEREST_) _We've got a few things in the pipeline. I'm still an active Hephaestan; people don't usually think of me as an academic, but it's always been the spark behind my plays on the platform. Er... ah! I also got a firecall from _Doxy - _something about a starkers [photographic] shoot with Maggie Bell from the [Holyhead] Harpies, but I've got a three-month-old to think about now so- _(cuts off, nervous laughter from panel)_

~James "Barmy" Charlus Potter on semi-retirement from GC Duelling, November 1980

* * *

His Pensieve - a Cogsworth original.

The concept of time was lost to Albus as he peered over its edge; the stone basin practically foamed to the brim with the shadows of memories long discarded, weeping a lament of mistakes far too grievous to face even once. Few objects of interest, whether organic or crafted possessed the strength to evoke his Wandsong to such a potent effect, but then again, Albus kept a reservoir of secrets compared to the average wizard's pond. And, by choice, he had forgotten thousands more.

He skimmed the surface of the shimmering culture with the tip of his wand, parting night from day, the sullying from the glorious, if only to catch a glimpse of the face which had hidden itself in this lake of memories as surely as it had eluded him in life. But the tethers between magic and mind were indelible, and were even more so in the employment of a Pensieve.

Albus had asked, and he duly received.

Recalling a withdrawn memory - especially one as fresh as the event which inspired it - was an often chilling experience, like a chance meeting with a long-lost friend in a foreign land. But Albus had prepared for tonight, and without a moment's hesitation he immersed himself in the basin's silvery vapours, leaving the solid certainty of his study behind.

_"All's good, Sir Albus?"_

That he was a mere shadow of the past meant little; staring Peter Pettigrew in the face was nothing short of haunting. A boyish face, pudgy frame and bucked teeth all made for an unassuming presence, but the Headmaster of Hogwarts and senior Herald of Merlin knew far better than most of the role Pettigrew played on the wizarding theatre.

_"All is as all does," _replied his slightly younger self, calmly poised in the same glided recliner which occupied his office to this day._ "I trust your stay in Sofia was eventful?"_

Pettigrew giggled. _"__It was cold. Unbearable, I tell you. Never was much good with Thermal Charms."_

_"Rubeus tells me that Salamander skins are a splendid substitute," _said Memory-Albus with an upturned smile. _"__I'm not disinclined to trust him, but... "_

Pettigrew laughed a little harder. _"No, I get you. Hagrid's not exactly our biggest fan anyway, 'specially when you count P- aha, James."_

The pudgy wizard clicked a rhythm with his tongue as he plucked a coaster-shaped stack of parchment from his undershirt pocket.

_"I come bearing gifts," _he said with an impish grin as he handed the papers to Memory-Albus. _"Had Jonesie Obliviate the specifics of course - my head's cleaner than a Murtlap."_

_"She's a remarkable touch with the mind," _his younger self mused as he flicked through the tanned pages._ "A bountiful harvest, for sure. The Order, as well as myself, are most grateful... which is why it pains me so to call on you again so soon." _

Pettigrew's ears twitched. _"Sir?"_

As the pair sat in silence, the scene itself appeared to still in front of Albus, who searched the younger wizard's face for even the most innocuous of tics or quirks.

_"When did you last meet with James and Lily?"_

_"It's... it's been a _while_, now," _said Pettigrew, knitting his brow._ "It's like they went off the map."_

_"Indeed."_

Pettigrew's frown deepened. _"You want me to find them?"_

Memory-Albus chuckled. _"Oh, heavens no! I wish for them to stay as they are. Missing."_

_"I... don't follow."_

_"You didn't take an Artificing N.E.W.T, by any chance?" _asked Memory-Albus, resting his chin upon steepled fingers.

Pettigrew stuck out a lower lip in thought. _"Got an _A _in Enchanting, can't remember what that other branch was."  
_

_"Remotations,"_ said Memory-Albus. _"There exists an immensely complex piece of magic which relies on a set of remote-controlled sigils - a Remotation, thus - as well as a battery of auxiliary spells and a myriad other conditions. When cast correctly, these components form what is unknown to all but a few archivists as the Fidelius Charm."_

_"Okay,"_ said Pettigrew, nodding slowly._ "So what does it do, exactly?"_

_"It takes a secret,"_ replied Memory-Albus, pointing a finger at the pudgy wizard's chest, _"and stores it within a single, living soul. As long as its Keeper remains silent while his heart still yet beats, no witch, Muggle or anything short of a god has a hope of discovering it."_

Pettigrew ran a hand through his hair. _"So you want everyone to just... forget them? Just like that?"_

Memory-Albus cracked a sad smile. _"If only I could. Unfortunately, with James' blood and name being tied to the Keys in the South-west, forgetting his existence is not an option - Britannia could do without another Norman Problem in light of current affairs. The Fidelius' limitations present another quandary: said secret can only be so general. We cannot conceal, for example, that 'James and Lily are in hiding' only for people to believe otherwise. The secret must be specific for the enchantments to hold._

_"Peter, you have proven yourself time and time again to be counted among the most resourceful of wizards that the Order has at its disposal, and as a loyal, fierce friend to the Potters. I could not think of another- " _

_"Sirius?"_

_"Sirius is currently in talks with the wizards at Pyongyang, where- "_

_"Pyong- are you serious?" _Pettigrew blustered._ "You can't get closer to the Other Side than that!"  
_

Memory-Albus nodded. _"Which is precisely why we require him to stay there. Besides that, young Mister Black would be an obvious choice for such a role in the eyes of the public... given media exposure and such... "_

Pettigrew seemed to appreciate the addendum, though his face did fall somewhat.

_"Yeah - I can't beat you there, sir," _he said, withdrawing a defeated breath. _"Is anyone else in on this? Does anyone know what James and Lily are up to right now?"_

There was a twinge of apprehension in his chord, something easily dismissed as fear for one's safety or the future in general. But Albus wasn't reminiscing; he was investigating, and every minute inflection was suspect.

After all, the Secret-Keeper had broken the Charm, and there were only two ways to accomplish such a feat...

_"Not to my knowledge,"_ replied the younger Headmaster, his gaze hardening,_ "and none shall know from that point onward - save myself, of course, but only you will be privy to the details. You will have to be careful, Peter. Trustworthy and capable though you are, you still know more of James than most. We will have to take certain measures to secure your safety as well."_

_"You're making it sound like Grindelwald himself is looking for them... maybe another of these Feedaluses, then?" _asked Pettigrew, his eyes faintly gleaming with mischief. Possibly a smidgen of hope, too.

_"I'm afraid not, though between myself and Filius - Alastor too - you should be in safe hands."_

Pettigrew looked down at his lap for a good while. Albus craned his neck, crouching as close as the image's clarity would permit.

_"Fine," _he said after a time. _" 'Spose it can only be me, right? What with Remus doing who knows what..."_

Memory-Albus smiled warmly, his shoulders slackening a little. _"Do not think that I am taking this for granted, Peter. What you have agreed to is a wonderful, wonderful thing."_

* * *

_Potters worked materials, even before we were called Potters. It depends how far you go, really. You would have something like "Jenny the potter", "Tristan from the pits" or anything remotely along those lines. The Muggles had no idea how we managed such a quick turnaround, or where we managed to get all of our materials._

_Did you Conjure it?_

_ABSOLUTELY NOT! Are you trying to kill the trade? Do you think a customer won't notice that their pots just "magically" disappear after a few weeks? They'll come back asking for a refund, and probably extra for the spilled soup! Never, NEVER Conjure something that you intend to sell. It's bad for business, and it's just plain rude. What year is it, now?  
_

_1992._

_No morals, honestly! "Did you Conjure it?" I suppose you're the type to flog Doxy Eggs with dragonblood pudding and call it a fry-up._

Intrigued though he was by the Grimoire and the magic behind it, Harry often found himself frustrated with the newest edition to his inventory of talking instruments. Not for the first time in his very short magical career, he was relieved that Hedwig would never learn English. Not that it was necessary; she understood him astonishingly well as things went, and could communicate her disdain of Harry's reading tastes with cutting precision. Were it not for Madam Pomfrey's swift action, Hedwig might have successfully pierced his ear one day.

Despite the Grimoire's professed creation by George Philip Potter - apparently a Chief-wizard during the seventeenth century - its contents were derived from several authors within the family. There were pasted snippets of older-looking parchment which weren't even written in English; many of the words appeared very similar to the Welsh road signs he'd seen on one of St Cecilia's summer trips, in fact. Subsequent owners seemed to have translated the bulk of those entries, but Harry felt inexplicably drawn to the ancient passages in their original text. Maybe there was a language class that he could take at Hogwarts someday?

Perhaps the Grimoire's most vexing habit was its tendency to rearrange its pages after every session. It regurgitated bookmarks, quills and even coloured Spello-tape almost immediately after Harry closed its covers. Any given author expected Harry to address them fully with a specific query in writing, and each one reserved the right to refuse him if a previous conversation was unresolved. Then, of course, there was figuring out the sender's identity. Harry ruled out Dumbledore pretty quickly; the handwriting was far too tiny and angular. It certainly wasn't Doge. The old History Professor knew little of the Crucible by his own admission, so it didn't seem likely that Harry's father would entrust him with such a secret.

That his father remained wholly absent from the Grimoire's pages - even when called upon - certainly didn't help matters.

Between his classes and extra duelling sessions in preparation for the friendlies next month, Harry had noticeably less real estate in free time than he did before the holidays, and with the onset of his first Wandsong tutorial, he found himself cursing his timetable for the first time since setting foot in the Castle. His latest Squad practice had already overrun; with Merrythought having to tutor the N.E.W.T-level Abjuration students and Cedric's insistence on showing him "tough love", Harry virtually tumbled into the third-floor classroom while trying to shake-off the effects of an unrelieved Dancing Feet Spell.

"Sorry! _Sorryimla_-" babbled Harry as he tripped, the wind lifted from his lungs as he unceremoniously landed into a desk nearby.

"Hm... _Tarantallegra, _I assume?"

He looked up; a bald, dark-skinned wizard with a hooped earring was staring back at him with faint amusement. His left shoulder was heavily padded, the rest of his arm tucked away in a sling.

"Er- yes, sir," Harry replied, struggling to find his voice as he tried to regain control of his legs. "Duelling practice, it's why I'm late."

The bald wizard rose from his seat, chuckling as he sauntered over.

"_Finite. _You know," he said, sheathing his wand, "the first thing they taught me back then was the Charmlifter."

Harry smiled appreciatively, flexing his liberated limbs in relief. "I should take the time to learn it myself, to be honest. You were on the Squad, sir?"

"Against my better judgement," said his tutor, smirking as he offered his free hand. "Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mr Potter."

Harry shook it eagerly, his eyes widening in realisation. "Shacklebolt... you're an Auror, sir?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"I saw your name in the paper, Mr Shacklebolt," said Harry. "It was in that _Prophet _article over the summer, about the Augo Profile?"

Shacklebolt's smirk broke into a full grin. "Numbers can be deceiving, Mr Potter. That's lesson number one."

The classroom setting aside, Harry found Shacklebolt's tutorial to be as far removed from his regular classes as his previous meetings with Dumbledore. At several points, his treatise on the Wandsong seemed to directly contradict what he'd been taught by a number of his instructors: he had an inkling that the injured Auror would likely butt heads with Professor Johnson in particular.

"Of course," said Shacklebolt at one point, "for all the activity we are exposed to - listeners of the Song or no - one must always bear in mind the nature of the supernatural. That is, that magic doesn't really 'exist' as such."

_"You know," _breathed his wand in the conversational vacuum, _"I think he's even more of an idiot than you."_

"Don't panic, it's all real. Everything we experience, everything we do - but magic as a thing? It doesn't exist: it _happens._"

Harry scratched behind his ear. "I... I think I get it, sir."

Shacklebolt laughed. "You might do, but I doubt it. Few witchfolk my age understand it, and there are even those of Dumbledorean skill who fight to deny it. But it isn't that groundbreaking. There are differing "Acts of Magic", as you'll learn for your W.O.M.B.A.T.s, I think."

"Might've read ahead there, sir," said Harry, smiling sheepishly. "I think it was transient versus persistent?"

The Auror hummed. "A good start. So what has Sir Albus told you about the Wandsong?"

"He called it a 'sensory perception'. Maybe he meant a sixth sense, or- "

"No," said Shacklebolt firmly. "I don't think he would have meant that. Remember Harry, wizards and Horklumps alike have a 'sixth sense' for the things that happen to and around us. It's part of what makes us magical. But what separates those who know the Wandsong from regular wizards is that our other senses are subjected to ambient magic as well. You talk to your wand, I hear?"

Harry squirmed a little. "Erm... yes."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. That's usually the first sign, but it won't stop there."

"It won't?" said Harry, feeling a lump form in his throat.

Shacklebolt shook his head. "In your case? I'd be shocked. As with most affected children, you'll likely end up seeing, tasting - even _smelling_ the stuff by the time you come of age. But that's why we want you to control it sooner rather than later."

The bald wizard reached under his desk, pulled out a long wooden crate with a brass buckle and passed it to Harry.

"Flip the latch."

Harry did as he was told; inside the box were three identical orange balls. He looked up at his tutor, an eyebrow raised.

"We're playing table tennis, sir?"

Shacklebolt laughed. "If you want to give Muggle Liaison even more paperwork, by all means! No - these are Charmed, and I want you to figure out how during our sessions until further notice. They're all spells on your syllabus, so there's no excuse."

"I guess you're not going to tell me how, sir?" said Harry, resting his chin on his forearms as he stared at the crate, mystified.

"I'll give you the same advice my grandmother gave me," Shacklebolt replied, leaning back on his desk. "'You were born with two ears and one mouth.' Use them wisely, hm?"

Harry blew a half-hearted raspberry. He enjoyed a challenge, but this exercise already seemed to mock him. Magic talked to _him, _not the other way around, so it wasn't as if he could interrogate the balls...

Harry's wand sniggered at the thought.

_Now _there's_ an idea! _

What did he feel when talking to his wand? What was the tingling, the warmth, that strange pressure he experienced when he held it for the first time? He felt it during Duelling Squad practices, for sure. But even then, there was something inexplicable about each episode, something deeper than mere sensation...

"There are _two _levels, aren't there sir?"

Shacklebolt stared back at Harry, his mouth wry. "Explain."

Harry frowned in thought. "You said magic _does_ rather than _is_, right? So... okay... for something 'transient', like in a spell, the actual magic isn't there anymore, but its effect is... "

The Auror said nothing, so Harry pressed forward.

"That's why I got hit so hard in Diagon Alley, and here... because the magic just keeps on going for certain things. But with Sorcery, a quick _Lumos _or even _Verto _just happens there and then, whether the effect is permanent or not. So it's not very overpowering, is it... Ha! I'm looking for the mark, some kind of trace - like I felt with my wand before it started talking, and I'll have to use that as a stepping stone!"

Shacklebolt whistled. "Impressive! Could use a head like that in our Office. You still have to complete your task, of course."

Harry's cheeky grin instantly fell. "True," he said, slouching slightly before he was struck by another stray thought. "Sir?"

"Mm?"

"I understand if you mind me asking, but... your arm- "

"Ah," Shacklebolt said darkly, glancing down at his sling. "Just the usual gone nasty. When officials are alerted about a particularly violent crime, they send out Hit Wizards. When it involves Dark Arts, an Auror tags along too. I was caught off-guard... first time in fifteen years."

"But you got them in the end, right?"

Shacklebolt withdrew a deep breath. "No, we didn't," he replied with a rueful smile. "It's your pride that hurts more than anything after a while, Harry. Crossing wands on the platform, I think you'll learn that in time."

* * *

Upon his return to the Common Room that evening, Harry was bombarded with questions from Hermione and Ron about his tutorial. However, while the brightest witch of their year demanded access to a rare tell-all interview with a clinically sane Wandsinger, the latter was far more interested in hearing about Shacklebolt's exploits against the Dark Arts.

"Did you get to see it, then?" he asked with a sly grin. "The bandage, I mean. Did he peel it back at all?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "That's revolting, Ron. The wound was Cursed for crying out loud!"

"He said it was healing," said Harry, shrugging. "I think he was more annoyed at the wizard getting away than anything else, though."

Hermione sniffed. "Of course he was," she said, crossing her arms. "Aurors catch enough flak as it is in the news."

"Yeah," said Ron quietly, viciously picking a fingernail. "D'you hear about that Healer, Spleen? They're saying he's innocent now. The papers are blowing it up, obviously, but..."

"Suppose it is sort of embarrassing," replied Harry, reflecting on the Wireless broadcast they heard a couple of weeks prior. "But who's that Pettigrew fellow they mentioned? Was he famous or something?"

Ron cocked his head to the side. "Dunno, for going missing, maybe. He went to Hogwarts though, says Mum."

"Your mum knew him, then?"

"Nah, not personally," said Ron, "Few years below my uncles, she said. Had to be pretty well off if he got in, or crazy brilliant."

"Didn't the _Prophet _call him a backpacker?" said Hermione, tucking her legs beneath her. "They wrote that he disappeared on a tour to China."

Ron harrumphed. "That's clever, isn't it? Walk right into the Trishula, why don't you?"

His bluntness aside, Ron's response held true of popular opinion. According to the _Prophet, _anywhere east of Austria was sketchy territory, save for the remaining anti-Grindelwald strongholds lying in the southern Balkans. That the Muggle world saw the entire city of Sumy disappear overnight was harrowing enough, but what was actually happening there was unthinkable, from what little Harry could tell.

"So this Pettigrew guy, they think he did it?" he asked.

"Sort of makes sense, I think," said Ron, his lips writhen. "I mean, this guy goes missing, like at the _end _of the war, and then when he pops back, my Uncle... "

Hermione's hand clutched his own, bone-white as it gripped the plush armchair.

"They'll get him, Ron," Harry said as earnestly as he could. "Mr Shacklebolt says it's top priority at the Ministry."

It was painfully unnerving to see Ron in that state; for all the time they had spent as dorm mates, Harry rarely saw Ron express much of anything. He laughed and grumbled like the rest of the House - sometimes - but such gestures from the red haired wizard were generally perceived as performances of great effort. On deeper reflection, Harry hadn't seen any of the other Weasley brothers show as much grief after their return from the funeral as Ron did at that point.

Harry felt someone brush past him. "You lot okay?"

"Oh! Neville," said Hermione, flashing the round-faced wizard a sad smile. "Just the, um, _business_, you know..."

"Ah." Neville nodded soberly as he perched on the nearest arm. "It's rotten, that. Really is... He's in good hands though, Ron. The Aurors'll- "

"But he isn't though, is he?" said Ron, his gaze snapping towards a stunned Neville. "He's dead. They can't 'investigate' him back to life, can they?"

"W-well no, but- "

"Forget it," Ron spat as he launched out of the armchair, storming off towards the dormitory.

Neville squirmed. "Cor, I didn't mean- "

"It's okay, Neville," said Hermione, sighing. "I shouldn't have mentioned the news. It was bound to set him off."

_"He started it, to be fair," _murmured Harry's wand.

Harry was grudgingly inclined to agree. Ron brought up the business with Spleen, not Hermione, and held his own for a good while until he (again, unsolicited) specifically mentioned his great-uncle. As much as he felt for his friend, however, Harry was somewhat intrigued by the focus on Peter Pettigrew. Why was his reappearance so important? People went missing all the time, after all, and Pettigrew was a wizard: if he didn't want to be found, then his magic could will it so.

Neville cleared his throat. "So, er... "

"Yes, Nev?"

"How're you guys getting on with Pleasant's problems?"

"Done," said Hermione airily. Harry nodded in kind.

Neville lightly punched his arm. "Reckon you can, you know... "

"Not doing it for you, mate. It's not fair."

"Fair?" spluttered Neville. "But you- "

Harry silenced him with a hard stare; it was all he could do in Hermione's presence. If she ever found out about his underground occupation as a hired quill, Harry would have hell to pay.

"You owe me," said Neville, eyes narrowed. "Do you know what sparring with Draco's like? _Do_ you?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine... I'll help, but you're still putting in work. Library, Hermione?"

"We have a while until closing time," she replied, slinging her satchel over her shoulder.

Neville laughed weakly as he slid off the chair. "Better get a move on, eh?"

* * *

"All right Nev, last one: 'derive the somatic component from each model.' What do we look for before anything else?"

"Harry..." said a weary Hermione.

"Oh, thanks." Harry prodded Neville's lowered head with his quill.

_"Ow!"_

Three-and-a-half hours of forcefed theory on spell adaptation had taken their toll, apparently. Harry didn't necessarily blame Neville; Hermione's insistence on using mnemonics which were twice as convoluted as the problems themselves gave him a bit of a headache, too.

"I don't understand how you've never used _Pin-___Tree_-Bicorn_," said Hermione as they braved the Staircase Tower that night.

Harry tittered. "Because you don't have to," he said. "Everything's there in the model already, right in front of you. That's why it's called a model_, _Hermione."

"I suppose," she mumbled, brow furrowed, "but you still have a mess of edges and letters. It's not like the modified processionals are immediately apparent from- "

"Oi! Professors," shouted Neville, vaulting to the next staircase as their own made a right turn. "Keep it moving - I don't much fancy tickling the Dragon on my own tonight!"

Harry sympathised with his reluctance. Like several older students who bypassed Caput Draconis by using the Tickling Charm, second-year Cormac McLaggen hedged his bets with the relatively simple spell: it was a Gryffindor practice of showing one's pride in their wandwork. Unfortunately, McLaggen turned out to be an equally simple sorcerer, and the Tower's guardian reacted with extreme prejudice. It took the effort of Professor McGonagall herself to prise McLaggen's wand hand from the silver snout, and the dragon's head itself was noticeably snappier ever since. Having a partner to supply a distraction was highly encouraged.

It appeared that the fates and Woden himself had more than one trial prepared for them that night, however, as they encountered a familiar group of Hufflepuff first-years loitering near the middle of the seventh floor corridor. Smith in particular was quick to spot Harry as they crossed the threshold to the hallway.

"Ah. Potter," he said, his smarmy voice wafting down the passage like an overpowering musk. "Good old Potter."

A couple of the Hufflepuffs sniggered as they formed a loose semicircle behind the blond wizard. Bones' stare, though frigid as ever, didn't disturb Harry as much as it did a few months prior. Whether it was from experience or knowing that she had only recently rejoined the Squad, he couldn't tell.

"All right, Zach?" said Neville cheerfully, pumping Smith's hand. The latter was otherwise stationary, as if he was completely oblivious to the gesture. Neville glanced back at Harry and Hermione, shrugging.

He tried once more. "What brings you lot to our floor, anyway?"

Bones scoffed. "_Your _floor? Papers are really going to your head, eh Longbottom?"

"You what?"

"This is so stupid," Harry heard Hermione murmur beside him.

"Leave it be, Susan," came the timid voice of a curly-haired boy who hadn't moved from his place at the wall. "We're waiting for Hannah. Trelawney's keeping her back for cursing Tyr in vain, or something."

"Weren't hard," said Neville, nodding in his direction. "Thanks, mate. So where's your tongue, Zach?"

Again, Smith completely ignored Neville, his eyes boring into Harry's instead.

"We heard about the friendlies, Potter," he said, raising his chin. "You feeling up to it?"

"I reckon so," replied Harry, with quite a bit more sincerity than he felt. Showing weakness in the face of any Hufflepuff, let alone Bones and Smith, was asking for more trouble than any duel would bring him.

"Of course he is," said Bones, pacing forward with her hands on her hips. "Probably casts the Killing Curse upside-down, knowing his sort."

"Is this still about the Pepper-Up Potion?" Neville squinted at them, bewildered. "What are you even _on_, Bones?"

"Earth, obviously," she retorted, mimicking Neville's expression. "You must be in La-la-land though, running the headlines with Grindelwald Junior over there. Perfect little bum-chums!" A round of _"oohs" _emanated from the Hufflepuffs.

Harry stepped in between them. "Look Bones," he said firmly, "just leave it out, all right? It was two months ago - he wasn't in the papers for 'Gardener of the Year'."

Bones gasped dramatically. "Oooh, the Dark Lord's standing to attention," she said with a sickly-sweet smile. "You two really are bum-chums, aren't you?"

"It does fit," said Smith, tapping the side of his chin. "Potty... Long_bottom..."_

His housemates jeered at them, save for the curly-haired boy, who took his cue to slip past the nearby archway.

Hermione huffed. "This is ridiculous," she said under her breath, striding past Harry and Neville to cleave a way through the band of Hufflepuffs. Smith, evidently revelling in the attention, wasn't in an accommodating mood as he blocked her path with an outstretched arm.

"Where do you think you're going, Mudblood?" he said, still laughing. Hermione rounded on him so quickly that her hair stood on end.

"Excuse me?" she growled.

Bones' eyes flashed. "Zach!" she said through gritted teeth, her gaze flitting towards the archway. "_Justin."_

_"She's on our side, now?" _whispered Harry's wand.

_Looks like she has some standards, at least._

"You should leave, Smith," said Hermione, her tone soft but curt. "Unless you'd rather have us tell Trelawney what you just said. Professor McGonagall's only down the corridor, too."

"All right, cool it Granger!" said Smith, raising his hands in feigned submission. "No need to call the Crups on us... typical Mud- "

"Leave her _alone_, Zach."

The crowd shuffled around to find a disgruntled Hannah Abbott enter the corridor, the curly-haired boy (whom Harry assumed was "Justin") shadowing her.

"Hannah," called Neville, nodding at the blond witch. She flashed him a weak smile in return before looking pointedly at Smith.

"I'm done now," she said, crossing her arms. "Can we go, please?"

Smith chuckled, spreading out his arms. "We're only having a bit of fun, Han- "

"Fun, yeah?" snarled Neville. "That what you call it, picking on Muggle-borns? You should've heard him, Hannah!"

Bones laughed harshly. "Funny how you notice her now, Longbottom! She was pretty much invisible before holidays, wasn't she?"

"Oh _piss _off, Bones."

"Make me, glorywhore!"

Harry heard a resounding _crack _followed by a sharp pulse of heat. Neville swore loudly, brandishing his wand with a Hex on his lips, but Bones was prepared.

"_Immobulus," _she spat, hurling a thread of bright blue mist from the tip of her wand. The spell trickled mere millimetres past Harry's ears before he tackled Neville to the ground.

_"Expelliarmus!" _he hissed, snapping his wrist as he bounced back on his feet to brace for the inevitable recoil.

It was uncomfortable indeed, but his aim was true; the extra-strength Disarming Charm sent Bones hurtling into another Hufflepuff girl, her wand clattering to the floor. Smith shot back a Pounding Hex as the crowd dispersed in panic, and Harry made to hastily deflect it before the spell dissipated upon hitting the ceiling.

"Wands away!"

The students whirled around to face Professor Snape's swift descent, his billowy black robes signalling an eclispe to the short-lived spellfire.

Neville winced. "Aw, _shit._"

"One can only speculate the occasion," said Snape, his heavy-lidded stare surveying the scattered first-years. "I've observed troops of baboons with more decorum. Granger! Care to explain?"

Hermione shared a look with Harry for a tense moment. _Evidently not._

She chewed her lip, warily lifting her head to address the Professor. "W-we were, um, that is... there's no explanation, sir."

Snape hummed in monotone. "I gathered as much. Very well: fifteen points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff for your gross display of mob mentality. And another three from Gryffindor for your foul mouth, Longbottom. Return to your dormitories at once.

"Potter!" he barked as the others scurried away. Harry froze in his tracks, slowly turning to regard the dread potioneer - only to find him poised to duel with his wand aloft.

_Okay Wand, _he thought, grimacing, _let's not be hasty. He wouldn't dare._

_"You don't know that..."_

"Watch closely," Snape said quickly as he performed a slashing motion, his other hand appearing to mirror the gesture before he arched his fingers at the very last moment.

_The Parrying Charm? No, wait..._

"Understood?"

What would clawing one's off-hand do to the Parrying Charm? Harry scoured his memory for the gestures he knew off by heart.

_Arched fingers... Death's Grip?_

Harry exclaimed in revelation, only to squirm at the Professor's look of disgust.

"Erm... fizzles a spell on contact? Sir."

Snape nodded stiffly. "Very good," he said, gathering his robes around him as he marched towards McGonagall's office. "Bed, Potter."

Thoroughly confused, Harry trailed the Professor as quickly as possible to avoid a further reprimand.

* * *

Common rooms were the sole exemption from School curfew; from the House passage onwards, it was considered a Prefect's responsibility to instil the importance of a good night's rest in their fellow housemates. That being said, the heavy schedules of first- and seventh-years alike meant that students valued their beds as a haven second to none.

Hermione, in contrast, denied herself sleep quite often, with unsolicited dreams of her parents and unfinished chapters of her "book of the week" playing the usual culprits. It would be dishonest of her to claim that the resultant fatigue didn't affect her mood, but neither novels nor nightmares were to blame as Hermione sat stewing in her dedicated armchair that night, her copy of _Blue Lamia _discarded on the end table.

"Life can piss off."

Her ears prickled at the gruff voice. "Ron? Where are you?"

"Been here for half-an-hour, you numpty," he said, moping in the armchair opposite with a Fanged Frisbee tucked under his arms.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "How did you- ? Never mind."

Ron chuckled softly, wriggling in his seat as he turned to face the ceiling. It was nice to hear him laugh, at the very least.

"Harry told me about the fight," he said, chucking the Frisbee in the air. "Said Smith was being an arse."

Again, Hermione slightly bristled at Ron's language, but she nodded all the same.

"Bones wasn't exactly pleasant either, but... " She sighed. "He said _that _word."

"Typical," he said, sneering as he caught the toothy disc. "Bloody hypocrites, those Hufflepuffs."

Hermione made a muffled noise in agreement. "That's not why I'm angry, though," she said.

"What?"

"Did Harry even tell you why they were arguing?" she asked, frowning.

Ron nodded slowly. "Er, yeah. Smith was being an arse."

"_No_," she groused, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Well, yes, actually, but... whatever. Smith and Bones were taunting Harry about his Duelling match and Dark Arts and whatever else, and Neville stood up for him, then they started making fun of _him, _too. Me and Hannah just gave them the excuse to act like idiots, but- "

"Hannah? What, Abbott?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Yes, why?"

"She's mates with Neville," said Ron, dangling his legs over the couch's arm. "Or used to be, I dunno. His Gran doesn't like her mum, I think."

She blinked. "Oh. Any particular reason?"

"Dean said so. He heard it from Bones, though," said Ron, hurling the Frisbee again. "So why's that got you peeved?"

Hermione tightly crossed her arms, eyes downcast.

"I feel like... an afterthought. He called me 'Mudblood', but it wasn't like Malfoy. It was like I didn't even _matter."_

A painful wave of silence permeated the Common Room - before Ron started sniggering.

Hermione stood up. "What's so funny?" she said hotly. He stared back at her, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Only you," said Ron, snorting as he set the Frisbee on the floor. "Only you could take offence at being picked on the least, of all things."

She slumped back into her seat, sulking. "It's not funny..."

"All right," he said, holding up his hands. "I'm never gonna understand what it's like, you know, being you and stuff. But I could be as inbred as frigging Nott and know that's funny!"

Hermione smirked despite herself. "We've been over this, Ron. You _are _as inbred as Nott."

* * *

**interlude one - beyond the grave**

_tick. tick. tick. tock._

_Six-four-three to five-nine-nine, six-four-four to six..._

A dodgy clock should have been the least of his worries. He was "cursed with a keen ear for such things", his mother once said. _Ears and eyes... _he should have been a Ravenclaw.

"You remember that night, Pat?" said a portly witch from the rosewood counter below. "'Ad a bloody goblin walk in that night, didn't we? Can't believe the cheek - you remember what he said?"

'Pat', a slack-jawed man who was busy Scouring a grubby maroon carpet with his wand, nodded distractedly. "Yep," he croaked.

The witch turned around, crossing her arms. "Well wha'd he say, then?"

Pat carried on cleaning, apparently oblivious to his patron's ramblings.

_Six-nine-two to six-one-eight..._

He had been here for a few days now, listening to Pat and his customers from above. It was the right place, of that he was sure, but it saw far less action than the Puffskein. He steered clear of Yorkshire these days; the Ministry raids were laughable, lip-service at best, but he wasn't taking any chances. Off their guard or otherwise, there would be at least a team or two of Hit-Wizards on the ground.

Given Prewett's high-profile status, they wouldn't be keen on pulling their punches, either.

"Bloody goblins," the witch said, swivelling around to tend to her glass on the counter. "Should 'ang em all, I say. Asking for wands... who d'they think they are? Most of us can't use 'em for witchcraft, let alone that rotten-wonky goblin shite! The only person in _my_ family who can is my Aunt Mavis, an' even then..."

_Seven-five-three to six-five-eight..._

It was unpleasant enough to hear wizards speaking ill of other wizards: wands versus rings versus staves versus those who couldn't use any of them, those who spoke to snakes versus those who tended to the owls... ignorance, for the most part. But the vitriol reserved for other beings – those considered 'beneath' wizardkind – really turned his stomach. It didn't anger him, but it was nauseating to say the least.

"Funny enough," she continued, worry lines creasing her ruddy brow, "ain't never seen _you _with a wand, Pat."

The barman stiffened, his eyes flitting towards the portly woman. After a tense moment, he sniggered to himself and carried on cleaning.

His patron heaved a dry chuckle. "Ah, 'spose you always were a clever one, weren't ya? Havin' this pub an' all, number of witches who tried sinkin' their claws into you, eh? But y'never budge, Pat. Good man!"

The witch cackled to herself, draining the contents of her beverage and flinging it towards the wooden clock.

_His _direction, in other words.

Caught unaware, he swore blue murder as he scuttled here and there to escape the bevy of chipped glass.

"Rats," the witch hissed.

Pat snorted. "What? Breaking my supplies not enough of a thrill for you?"

"Rats, Pat," she said, pointing a flabby finger at the wooden clock. "You've got _rats._"

"Like hell I have," the barman snarled, snapping his wand to his thigh.

_Dragon balls._

After spending time in inns and pubs for months at a time, he knew that most proprietors had both the gold and sense to hire contractors to maintain Pesticide Hexes.

He also knew the wizard below to be a _very _paranoid character.

Pat started whistling, slowly stalking towards the bar all the while.

"Pat?" said the witch, eyes narrowed. "What're y-"

"Get out."

_Eight-eight-two to eight-six-three..._

"You can't Blast it, Pat, there'll be mess ev-"

Pat rounded on her in an instant; a stream of reedy silver sparks drizzled menacingly from the tip of his wand and illuminated the dimly-lit room.

"Are you deaf? I said get_ out, _you sparkless idiot!"

The portly witch ran for her life, tripping on the hem of her gaudy plum dress robes several times before she tumbled through the rickety oak door, but Pat's attention lay elsewhere.

"_Deprimo__!"_

He dove down behind the counter as a loud sucking noise tunnelled towards the clock. Pat was definitely dangerous, then; the Charm wasn't Dark in the slightest, but a hole was a hole, and he preferred to keep his organs intact.

Peeping through the sliver of an opening beneath the counter, he watched as the slack-jawed barman made several flicking gestures with his wand, each one emitting a swath of ringing and clinking tones_. _An Anti-Disapparition Jinx: he knew those sounds well. A final upward sweep and a veil of light cloaking the walls resembled the Shield Charm in reverse... they were locked inside, it appeared.

"Come out, come out, you filthy rat!"

He would have to, sooner or later. The Jinx would break after an hour or so if it was perfectly cast, but he couldn't hide for that long. From what he had already shown, Pat probably had quite the bag of tricks at his disposal, and would likely need less than half of that amount of time to identify him. Breaking any of the spells would require him to draw his wand, and he couldn't do that without revealing himself anyway. There was no other choice.

_tick. tick. tick._

It was still going, taunting him just like _they _had years before. A wizard didn't choose his form. It wasn't a conscious decision: of that he was certain. It would typically stem from an event – an incident – in one's formative years which triggered the association, according to the manuals. Maybe that's what happened in his case?

_tick. tick. tick._

Whatever the reason, the topic caused him constant humiliation amongst his peers. A small price to pay, but his ego was bruised nonetheless. It was a cruel twist of fate for his second wand to be fashioned from hickory, for Peter Pettigrew was no mouse.

_Tock._

Leaping high over the counter with more agency than his limbs should have, he stretched and tensed, the musty air of the bar washing over his face and hands as the hair over his skin moulted into the ether. The time it took to change was only a slight risk: the pure shock factor and his practised quick-draw were sufficient mitigation.

Pat sneered at him, his wand trained in kind. "A rat in wizard's clothing," he said. "Rare sight, an Animagus – I have to say."

Peter grinned. "We all have our masks. Where's the real Pat, then?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" The impostor laughed, shaking his head. "I'm tired of you lot now. You're good at finding me – real good – but you never quite _make_ it, do you?"

Peter frowned at him. " 'You lot?' You seeing someone that I don't?"

"Come off it, Wormtail," the impostor scoffed, his eyes dancing with glee as Peter flinched at the moniker.

"Yeah, that's right – I know your crowd _very_ well. Who do you think almost blew Monarch's arm to pieces the other week?"

He hadn't heard _that_ nickname in over a decade. This meeting was far more than Peter had bargained for.

"You don't think you're getting sloppy, do you?" he replied, rolling back his shoulders with as much bravado as he could muster. "Dropping names like that... you're lucky it's me you're talking to."

"Maybe so," the mystery wizard mused, eyeing his wand for a brief moment. "Maybe I'm going mad... I am talking to a dead person, after all."

"No need for the wand, then?"

The wizard let out a guttural laugh. "Oh, you aren't getting away _that _easily, Pettigrew. Not until I know who you're working for."

Peter arched an eyebrow as he lowered his wand.

"My word," he said breathlessly, leaning with his back to the counter. "And there I thought you were a smart one."

The mystery wizard's lip curled in distaste as he paced forward. "You think of yourself as my better, _Wormtail? _That's the sort of arrogance that got our 'barmy friend' lying six feet under with a wand up his- "

"_Expulso!"_

Ultramarine sparks hissed and screamed as they danced across the impostor's timely Shield Charm, leaving nothing but steam in their wake.

"Oho..." The mystery wizard chuckled as he started bouncing on his heels, mirthful eyes meeting Peter's own. "Wormtail wants to dance, does he? Can't remember you being much of a duellist."

He wasn't.

They traded spellfire for a few seconds, plumes of smoke rising from the scorch marks of deflected spells. As a large, smoggy hand coalesced from an angry crimson haze around the impostor's wand, Peter summoned the range of glasses and bottles behind him, hurling them at his opponent in a last ditch effort to cancel the Curse. Woden knew his Shield Charm wouldn't help him.

_Show-off._

His survival instincts and the impostor's pride paid off; the hand melted to the floor in a misty heap as the wizard swatted the glass missiles every which way. Peter used the time gained from the diversion to throw down the Charm that caged them in. He had to get out _now._

"We aren't done yet, Wormtail!" bellowed the impostor. _"CONFRINGO!"_

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **There's quite a bit in store for the next chapter... The reviews from the last update were very much appreciated - shout-outs to _lightning king_, _flame7926_, _J no K_, _Nephilim_, _FireandSteel_ and _RishavA_. If you've any questions, feel free to drop me a PM at your fancy. As always, thanks for reading!


	15. Vickie Keeps A Grudge

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Kingsley drinks tea, Harry goes to the seaside, and Lucius goes for a stroll.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen – Vickie Keeps A Grudge**

_"... consider the Floo Network, for example, a googol-Galleon industry. The Ministry - nay, the ICW at large - constantly bombard us with pamphlets about the dangers of buying powders from 'unaccredited' merchants, and why wouldn't they? Network authorities are paid a giant's weight in gold to sponsor a select few laboratories, and when you investigate it, and I mean _really_ investigate it, one finds that the Guild chairmen, business owners and public officials were all known to share the same bottle of Firewhisky hidden in their en-suite ivory tower dormitories._

_"A row of Runespoor fangs might only cost you twenty Knuts if you play your cards right. That can easily get you where you need to go for a good three months. A jar of Wildsmith's 'Original' Floo Powder? Two Sickles, but you'd be lucky to make it stretch the fortnight. And yet, no research has been brought forward to support the alleged link between home-brewed powders and chimney explosions. But we all know about Wizard Fudge's experimentation with Heliopaths back when he was a junior employee in Accidents and Catastrophes, do we not? Oh yes, we do. Vestigial phenomena, perhaps?"_

~ Xenophilius Lovegood, excerpt from the interview _Clean Your Crystal Balls: The Wizard Behind the Quibbler _(recorded 1988)

* * *

Squirrelled away from the outlets which graced the ring of Hogsmeade's High Street, Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop arguably commanded the most widespread reputation in the village. A fairly young establishment in local respects, it was nevertheless renowned for its service by witchfolk as far afield as the Kentish villages in the South. Bacchus Frankelyns, a notoriously fastidious contributor to _The Elfish Touch _magazine, once awarded its menu a coveted five-and-a-half out of seven stars - the remainder being penalised because the adolescent odour from a nearby booth caused him to "gag" on his "nonetheless exquisite cup of Diviner's Darjeeling". A strict grooming policy on admission was enforced thereafter.

Albus, a devoted patron from its inception, was known to hold the occasional meeting in the good Madam's service, discussing otherwise insipid matters such as the rates for out-of-term visitor fees to the Library over a piping hot Taurlump scone or three.

He thought of it as money well spent, though somewhat less than a handful of the staff agreed.

"'Anti-Ministry werewolf cells teeter on the cusp of "exponential proliferation", Senior Undersecretary Umbridge stated yesterday'," Albus recited as he peered over the _Prophet's _morning headline. "Thoughts, Kingsley?"

Visibly disconcerted as he cast a leery look over the rustic, florid trappings of his surroundings, the off-duty Auror appeared grateful for the distraction.

"Werewolves? I've only met two or three in the past lifetime," he said. "Madam Umbridge has some... interesting opinions, one could argue."

Every other witch he had encountered had a word or one thousand to say about Madam Umbridge. If Albus' memory was as sharp as he believed, 'interesting' was seldom one of them.

"Ever the diplomat!" he said before enjoying a sweet sip of Cantabulous Chamomile. "Unsurprising, given your consenting to meet in such an obviously uncomfortable setting."

Kingsley coughed, shuffling in his seat. "Not at all, Albus. Don't mention it."

"Do feel free to suggest our next venue," replied Albus with an upturned smile. "To the crux of things, then. How is Harry faring in your tutorials?"

Kingsley jutted out his lower lip in thought. "I can't complain. The boy's got a brain, for sure. He pretty much worked out the basics of Augometry without even knowing what it is. We're focused on tracing his wand's magic at the moment-"

"His wand?"

Kingsley bore a wry grin. "His idea. He's using the affinity he has with his wand as a so-called 'stepping stone'."

_Impressive_. Harry was displaying real initiative; his schedule notwithstanding, Albus felt compelled by his own curiosity to observe the odd tutorial in the future.

"An intriguing approach to say the least," he said, smiling. "I imagine he may find it a tremendous labour, though the benefits would be twofold. Deliberately triggering the Wandsong - he might even be saved the hassle of those, ah... 'episodes' in the near future."

Kingsley let out a short, dry laugh. "Don't remind me! Seems like only yesterday - the location isn't helping, mind you..."

He trailed off, his eyes hovering over a mural depicting a litter of Crups at play. Albus felt the corners of his mouth quiver in amusement; the Wandsong _did_ have a way of playing on the baser emotions of witchfolk, especially those who had yet to come of age.

"Not _here_, Kingsley," he said. "Surely not."

"Fifth year, spring term," Kingsley droned, staring down his untouched cup of tea. "Embla Nyström - she was here on that exchange program."

"Nyström... the _family_, Nyström?" The clan of Swedish sacred-water suppliers were notorious for "marrying in", for lack of a better term.

Kingsley gave him a weak nod.

"My word."

"It was completely platonic, Headmaster." Kingsley shut his eyes, a hand raised in protest. "Or it was until she suggested that we revise Herbology _here_ after someone recommended it. I'll spare you the specifics, but enduring the Song at _that_ age? I wouldn't be in a rush to re-live it."

"Nor would I," Albus replied, chuckling. "I'm assuming you welcomed the distance after the fact?"

Kingsley groaned slightly. "If only. She married an Anglesey's boy. Gina drags me to those damned reunions whenever she gets the chance."

As Albus tittered into his cup of tea, a high-pitched whirring noise caught their attention. Kingsley raised his fist, eyes fixed on a copper band which was flashing red.

"Crimson alert," he muttered, frowning. "Surely I told... no, this is _Crouch_'s doing. Talk about sick leave."

Albus scratched his beard. "Utherton, possibly? I wonder."

Coverage of the freak explosion in the Oxfordshire town had dominated every Wireless station from the early hours of the morning. Even the _Prophet's _resident fear-mongers were reluctant to suggest foul play as a result of Dark activity, but if Aurors were being summoned...

"Likewise," replied Kingsley, fastening his cloak with his uninjured hand as he stood up to leave. "Apologies, Sir. I'll keep you in the loop, of course."

* * *

Even as the Duelling Squad were shuttled to the South Downs for their first exhibition of the New Year, the previous night's explosion in Utherton was the topic of choice for the majority of the Knight Bus ride to Pearlclyfe School. Ministry officials still had yet to make a statement of any kind, leaving speculation wide open to the masses. Kaaj Kokhar, Arjan's elder brother, offered the most creative explanation.

"I'm telling you," he said, exasperated, "it was Pettigrew: he's down with the Trishula. Typical EMR tactics! Isolated explosion, no witnesses- "

Ainsley MacDougal, a fellow third-year, cleared her throat to interject. "Actually, there was one witness," she said, waggling a finger. "She said the barman turned a wand on her."

Kaaj guffawed. "She was off her face though, wasn't she? Gotta love these live Visuals they're doing now..."

"This kind of thing happens all the time, anyway," said Hornby, hands behind his head as he leaned into his recliner. "My Dad's on the Reversal Squad. He's _always_ on about Floo fires."

Cedric made a non-committal noise as he polished his wand. "Don't know about that one. They said the fire was spell-resistant, didn't they?"

"I guess," he replied. "Scam gone wrong, maybe - who knows, right? Probably thought he could blame it on the enchanters, sparkless twit..."

"That's not on, Hornby." With faint surprise, the group glanced over at the source of the objection.

Harry had been silent on the matter until then. His nerves were far too fraught in anticipation for his first _ever_ serious duel, and bad news was a part of life. But all things considered, he thought commenting on the sole casualty's magical aptitude to be unnecessary at best.

Hornby shrugged. "Nothing personal. Just saying, you know?"

Harry rolled his eyes, turning away to watch the flickering snapshots of scenery through his window.

"It was a little uncalled for," said Cedric. "The guy _died_. Besides, he was a barman. Even if he didn't have family, a town of punters can't be wrong."

Hornby quietly scoffed, but otherwise dropped the subject.

The journey resumed with little conflict after that, until Bobby Jordan brought out his Wireless. How the seventh-year Gryffindor had managed to procure the music he was playing was anyone's guess, but Harry was fondly reminded of the copied cassettes Phil would often hide in their room at St Cecilia's. If the whooping from the other student duellists (the vast majority of whom rarely interacted with Muggles if ever) was any indication, the impromptu theme music was much appreciated.

**"Yee-ah, and y'don't sto-op**  
**'Cuz it's one-eight-seven on an undercover-"**

"Jordan!" bellowed Professor Toothill, rocking from side to side as the Bus jumped from the dense marshland into a busy motorway. "Turn that Muggle tripe off this _instant!_"

He eventually complied, albeit grudgingly, grumbling something along the lines of "weird sisters" and "wizard privilege".

"How you feeling then?" said Cedric after a while.

Harry's eyes were glued to the window. "Fine."

He didn't know why Cedric bothered asking; after two practices worth of persuasion, he knew very well that Harry was scared out of his wits. He was excited, definitely, but he wasn't oblivious to the pressure that the Squad was under, friendlies or no.

Cedric elbowed him lightly. "Don't let Toothill get to you. Or Yaxley," he added. Harry stifled a snort.

Priscilla "the Nasal One" Yaxley, although assigned to Susan Bones by the mysterious Chief (no surprises there), had taken a personal interest in informing Harry of the consequences should he "besmirch" the Squad's reputation.

"She's just miffed that Bones wasn't invited," said Cedric, glancing at the front of the Bus where Yaxley, engaged in fervent discussion with another Slytherin witch, was sitting. "You'll be fine, trust me. Pearlclyfe's the only real competition there, anyway."

Harry perked up slightly. "Who else is going?"

Cedric screwed up his face in thought. "Cor... a few usually show up, I can't even remember. _Definitely_ Redmoor, 'cause Jordy had a bit of a giggle at that - plus a load of the smaller schools. A couple of those local Hedge-tutors too. They're pretty big occasions, these, but don't worry about it. Most of them can barely hold a wand, anyway."

"Why do you all keep saying that?" asked Harry.

Cedric threw his head back, meeting the headrest with an audible _thump_.

"Seriously, Harry. Get over yourself, would you?"

"What- "

"We aren't saying it to be mean," he said, pausing for a moment. "Well - maybe Hornby, but he's a toff."

"Aren't we all?" Harry said under his breath.

Cedric cocked his head to the side, looking Harry in the eye.

He chuckled. "Yeah, we might be," he replied, "but that's the point. We're Hogwarts kids, or Pearlclyfe, or whatever. They aren't. It's sad, really, because they obviously 'get' Sorcery,_ real _Sorcery I mean. But we've got," he gestured at the Professors, "you know?"

Harry nodded uncertainly.

"It isn't fair, I guess," Cedric continued, sighing. "Anyway, forget about that. You'll kill it! Just don't do any fancy stuff."

"Haven't the foggiest what you're on about."

Cedric looked at him askance. "Ask your wand sometime."

Harry let out a weak laugh, his eyes trailing back to the pane of glass.

_"I'll be good," _purred his wand. _"Brownie's Promise!"_

_Maybe it _was _a bad idea to start telling people about us..._

* * *

The tenth of February in the year Nineteen Ninety-Two brought with it a (from that point onwards) recurring epiphany for the last Potter.

_I need to get a camera._

It wasn't Hogwarts. After only four-and-a-half months, Harry was already too proud to entertain such a thought. Even so, the maritime grounds of Pearlclyfe School were unquestionably imbued with the breath of magic. The walls of the six towers, one of which stood partially submerged in the shallow waters while the others jutted out from various points on the cliff face, appeared to be seamlessly carved from the surrounding chalk itself. Harry found the scene more than a little disturbing at first glance, but as the party scaled the blanched and rocky steps to the beach, he became increasingly aware of a uniform lull across the nearby bank. He definitely caught a whiff of a short, brackish gale as they neared the sea, but there was nary a wave in sight.

It felt like a truce, of sorts: the fragile-looking towers would suffer no danger from these waters.

As they trudged along the shore towards a protruding chalk tunnel, Harry could hear the sand sing beneath his boots. Its tin-whistle tone was hard to place; the bright but dissonant melody was a solitary one, but it seemed to radiate from the smallest grain to the largest pebble. It was a mediator, placating the sea and exalting the cliff. His wand thrummed in tandem.

_"The mischief of Time and Fortune are urged elsewhere..."_

"Get a move on, whelp!" Bristling at the sound of Yaxley's call, Harry reluctantly turned his back on the shoreline to join his teammates.

"Nice view here," he heard Hornby murmur to Cedric as he caught up to them. "Scope out the talent and that."

Harry blinked. "Without seeing them in action?" The older pair sniggered.

Harry stared at them, bemused, only for Hornby to ruffle his hair. "When you're older, Harry-poo."

_"Divination, perhaps?" _offered his wand. _"I _bet_ it's Divination."_

_Don't let Hermione hear you say that. _Not halfway through their first year, his House-mate was of the firm belief that some magics were more reliable than others. Their usual subject debates aside, Hermione had no patience for the esoteric field, and her estimation of Professor Veness had suffered since its brief introduction in Theurgy following the winter break.

"Keep an eye out for a _really_ short Pearlclyfe kid," said Cedric, his jaw set as they neared the entrance.

"They beat you?" Harry said before he could stop himself.

Cedric nodded stiffly. "Jenny Guan. Hammered me last summer."

The Hufflepuff rarely mentioned his pride, but Harry understood. While he was known for his sportsmanship on both the platform and the Quidditch pitch, even Cedric had his limits, and carrying one loss ("the other was a default!") against twelve wins must have been a real pain.

"Victoria!" boomed a voice ahead. A hulking, bald and blond-goateed wizard emerged from the mouth of the tunnel, wearing a set of short buff robes with hose cut just above the shins. Toothill groaned under her breath as she strode off towards him.

"Who's that?" asked Harry before a pair of hands suddenly clapped his shoulders. He whirled around to meet Jordan's grim look.

"Bowell," he said deeply, rousing the pit of Harry's stomach. "He's Pearlclyfe's coach, ex-Level Zero. Right tosser."

Yaxley, who was on his right, sniffed at him. "_He_ just knows how to pick them."

"Whose side are you even on?" asked Jordan, eyes narrowed. Yaxley simply smiled in response. It was an odd expression to see on the Slytherin witch's face, and it made Harry's stomach churn yet again.

Their foray into the school itself was not quite as stirring as the coastline's melody, but the hill-carved towers were far from mundane. As they made their way through the uphill tunnel, Harry could feel the faint oscillations of pressure bubbling within the pores of the rocky structure.

_Maybe there's something in the Grimoire about this sort of thing..._

"Chalk... really?" he mumbled as they climbed a narrow spiral staircase to the base of the Pearlclyfe Lighthouse, the highest tower and closest to the schoolyard.

Cedric glanced back. "Whuzzat?"

"What do you think they did to it?" said Harry, patting the wall. "I mean, it still feels like chalk, but it's... you just _know _it's not going to crumble or blow over, you know?"

"Atlas Array. Probably an Unbreakable Charm woven in too," said Hornby from a few steps behind.

Harry stopped to look around. "Nice, around the front? Or- "

Hornby swore loudly as he tripped over the tail of Harry's cloak. "At the foundation! Please keep walking..."

Harry knit his brow. "Which would be where? We're in the middle of a cliff."

Hornby didn't reply, opting instead to barge past him.

Harry sniffed. "You could have just _said... _oh."

The returning daylight was accompanied by a harsh draught as the Squad reached the base of the Lighthouse. Professor Toothill was waiting outside at the entrance, standing firm as her robes and hair were buffeted by the unruly wind.

"Right then," muttered Toothill, magicking a scroll and quill with a flourish of her wand. "Jordan?"

"Here, Coach."

"Montague." A stringy witch with auburn hair raised her hand in silence.

"Tonks?"

A shorter, dark-haired Hufflepuff waved her arms. "Over 'ere, Vickie!"

Toothill arched an eyebrow as a few of the other Seniors sniggered. "Quite. Davies..."

Once everyone was accounted for, Professor Flitwick administered a brief inspection of each wand.

"Here we go, Mister Potter!" he said, winking as he returned the foot of holly.

_"Such delicate hands. I would swoon!"_

_Not right now, you won't, _thought Harry. _We've got work to do._

"Business as usual, Madams and Wizards," said Toothill, chin raised and scroll in hand as she paced before the Squad. "Oh, I know what you're all thinking. It's not _that _crucial today, is it? '_Nah _Coach, it's Feb friendlies! Just nick a Butterbeer and have a laugh, innit?' "

Harry chuckled, realising a second later that no one had joined in.

"Something funny, Potter?"

He felt his face flush as everyone turned to him.

He feigned a sneeze. "Er- allergies, Coach. Sorry." Toothill shot him a tired look and resumed pacing.

"Seniors - we're top spot right now, I'll give you that. Not much at stake before Easter, true... but this is the calm before the storm, make no mistake! Forget the rest of them - you _know _what Pearlclyfe's like. We were top spot last year too, remember? And we got a little brave, didn't we? Lo and behold, they pummel us during the Spring Recess, we don't recover in time, and it's the same damned story all over again for the past ten years. I don't care how many scholarships they're giving to patrol school drop-outs, and I don't care how many judges are fans of Monty _bloody_ Bowell! We are _Hogwarts, _and we've been running this show from year Dot!"

"Hear, hear!" chorused Jordan and Tonks.

Merrythought stepped forward, beaming at the crowd. "Juniors, we're doing stellar. Keep it up! We've got some new blood joining us, so it's more important than ever that we show a united front. Clear?"

"Yes Coach!" cried the Juniors.

Toothill waved Flitwick over. "Anything you'd like to add, Professor?" The tiny Charms Master scurried to the front of the crowd.

"Just one thing - Ps and Ds, Ps and Ds! You can't go wrong with fundamentals. Now off we go!"

* * *

Having rarely missed a day of school back in Oakwood, Harry was well accustomed to changing rooms - when they were sex-separated. Juniors were generally free to practise in regular attire (sans robe) at Hogwarts, so he made a point of turning up early after a while. There was no escape here, though. To aid in the task of averting his eyes, Harry looked down at his fixture slip for the umpteenth time:

Match Draws

_9\. HYNES vs POTTER_

_"Pfft. Hynes," _breathed his wand. _"Isn't that something people eat?"_

Harry giggled.

"You all right there, Potter?"

"Hm?" Harry set his wand and the parchment aside as Jordan, already clad in Hogwarts' Old Mauve, ambled over. "Yes, just um... clearing my head."

The older Gryffindor let out a short cackle as he sat down beside Harry.

"Never works for me, that," he said, staring into space (Harry hoped). "Not until I'm up there."

"All eyes on you."

Jordan laughed again. "Yep."

"Prefect Jordan?" said Harry after a moment.

Jordan's head spun around in an instant. He made a face at Harry before bursting into laughter.

"Never! Ever," he said, wiping his eye. "_Prefect _Jordan... hah. Now carry on?"

Harry winced. "Sorry. No, I was just thinking - Potter's a common surname, right?"

Jordan frowned in thought. "Huh. Not sure, to be- _oh._" He patted Harry on the shoulder. "Look man, I'm gonna be level with you, yeah? Your dad's my hero."

"Thanks, I think," murmured Harry. It really wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Jordan chuckled some more. "Come on Harry, wind down! It's not a big deal. You're eleven, for Chip's sake. No one out there's gonna judge you on your first performance. If anything, they'll _expect_ you to be pants!"

"Wonderful."

"But we know that's bollocks, don't we?" said Jordan, shoving him lightly as he stood up to leave. "Anyways, get your kit on - ain't got all day!"

Harry looked down at his folded duelling uniform: a black jersey and hose worn under the Old Mauve leather jerkin. His name and the jacket's trim were coloured gold to represent his House.

_"Makes you want to throw up, doesn't it?" _teased his wand.

_I'm sorely tempted._

* * *

_Pink pulse - Disarmer, surely... nice Dance, Tonks._

_"Oooh, pretty blue bubbles! Why's she blasting the ground with them?"_

_Maybe it's a Jinx that makes you sli- oh. Poor bloke._

The friendlies on Pearlclyfe's playing fields marked the first time that Harry had watched the Seniors since the Club exhibition in the autumn, and their displays were just as inspiring and twice as humbling. Incantations were seldom spoken for one, and guessing the spells before their effects was nigh impossible. These duellists - the Hogwarts contenders, especially - were _fast._

A klaxon sounded in the distance. **"Knockdown - four to zero, Tonks. Match point."**

"Brilliant! Watch out for that Yaxley, by the way," Harry heard Merrythought mutter to Toothill - the Slytherin Prefect was duelling a stocky wizard with an unusually short wand. "Light of foot, sharp off-hand... she might put her mother to shame, one day."

Toothill tutted at her. "Let's not go _that _far, love."

With a fluid Dance to her right, Yaxley sneered at her adversary as his wispy Jinx wafted over the Hex-Zappers. Had he blinked, Harry would have missed her following jab; hit square in the chest by a blobby purple Curse, the boy doubled over and retched loudly. If that was what she was capable of - and not even having reached the zenith of her potential in Merrythought's opinion - Harry more than baulked at the idea of crossing her mother.

For all Merrythought spoke of the Juniors keeping a united front, Harry wanted to learn as much as possible from his first outing. He was sure that Cedric and the others knew their stuff, but sitting with the Professors provided valuable context in contrast to the pair of wandering commentators on the ground. They were quite the sight: a tall, beak-nosed witch in tweed robes followed by a dumpy, ruddy-faced wizard wrapped in a bright orange cloak. They were both talking into what looked like whittled ram horns, and made little sense if any.

"Aha! He's going for the Dipper approach... and failed."

"Paid the price for that one, he did. Dry-spark feints on stone are old hat, terribly antediluvian... now if he'd taken a leaf out of Jenny Guan's book..."

_What are they on? _wondered Harry. His wand snorted.

_"Each other's farts, probably."_

Quite a ways beyond the regular off-hand secondary motions, the older duellists also used a fair amount of magic without a wand. Bobby Jordan was particularly fond of poking and flicking at thin air, causing an unfortunate white-clad witch - who Drove forward at just the wrong moment - to be hurled backwards chin-first.

**"Knockdown - five to three, Jordan. Hogwarts match!"**

Jordan strode over to his opponent, smiling broadly with his hand outstretched. The witch gave it a cold look as she brushed past him, storming off of the platform with a huff.

"How horrid," whispered Flitwick.

Merrythought hummed. "Pearlclyfe teach magic well. Magic, but not much else."

Harry was unsure on whether it was solely a question of Pearlclyfe etiquette. Not ten minutes earlier, Professor Toothill had all but reduced Iain Davies to a blithering mess for calling the Redmoor witch he narrowly lost against "part-troll".

Then again, as Neville and Draco likely would have reminded him, she _was_ from Redmoor.

**"Number Nine, to Platform Three? Number Nine, to Platform Three."**

Merrythought started clapping. "Ooh, Potter - you're up! Knock 'em dead. Just not _too _much..."

"Too right," said Toothill, tittering. "Leave Azkaban until after you finish school."

"Good luck, Messr Potter!" squeaked Flitwick. "First win of many!"

Harry found himself seriously questioning those words as he descended the spectators stands. The field gradually drew to a standstill, and every step he took seemed to close just half the distance of his last. It was a journey of misgivings, slow enough to bequeath him every heartbeat of doubt and each clammy hand of regret.

Time and Fortune were mocking him. Possibly Woden, too.

Before he knew it, Harry's feet were planted to the rocky, rune-marked surface of Platform Three. Allowing himself a halted glimpse at the Squad bench, he caught Cedric's eye. The Hufflepuff beamed and gave him a thumbs-up, as did Ainsley and Kaaj beside him. Hornby was stationary, his face unreadable.

_"Oh, I know what he's thinking," _whispered his wand. _"Prissy Potter, thinks he's too good to sit with the team..."_

_Hornby's all right - he's helped us out a couple times, hasn't he? He's just a little up himself._

_"Suit yourself."_

He steadied his gaze on the other end of the platform. A brown-haired witch, an inch or so taller than him, he guessed, was dressed in a simple navy uniform with tattered sleeves. Her eyes and fists were firmly shut.

"Now for our third Junior match of the day..." Harry snapped his neck to the right. The commentators were making their way over with the Pearlclyfe coach, Bowell, in tow.

"And it's a Miriam Hynes versus... oh my, Harry _Potter._" said the dumpy commentator, tapping at his monocle. "He does rather resemble the Baron, tan and all!"

"Indeed," mused the tweed-wearing witch. "The papers couldn't get enough of him this past summer. But does he have what it takes? Barmy Jim was two parts mad thaumaturge and five parts court jester with the blood of a Manticore. That's a rare breed, Wilfred- "

"But he _is _the Baron's son. What say you, Monty?"

The hulking wizard ignored them both, vaulting himself onto the platform one-handed. He breathed deeply, causing his bushy moustache to fan outwards as if in warning.

"You two," he said, curling a beefy finger. "Over here." The two competitors rushed towards him immediately.

"First time for both of you, correct?" They both nodded. "Quick refresher on the rules, then - this is a single set bout. One point for each hit, two for a knockdown and three for a conquest."

_Conquest: _to successfully claim an opponent's focus, in duelling parlance. Harry felt his insides squirm at the term.

"Keep it clean. If you hit, you hit. Any further is a foul. Drawing blood on contact is an automatic disqualification. Understood?"

They nodded again. Bowell leapt off of the platform, still facing them as he slowly edged away.

"On my mark... salute!"

_This is it... _

They did as they were told - except for Hynes keeping her eyes shut.

_"She's going to fall off at this ra-"_

_Shh! Not now._

_Six paces... seven... turn._

"FIRE!"

He Drove forward. Going for a taunt would help his nerves, if nothing else, and the girl seemed skittish during the salute as it was. That turned out to be a horrible mistake, for Hynes' grey eyes were hard and focused as she punched at the air with her off-hand. A gust of wind, no larger than a tennis ball but twice as tough, zoomed towards him. With no time to deflect it, Harry shifted to his left, but not before the missile grazed his abdomen.

**"Beat - one to zero, Hynes."**

Harry grit his teeth as the ache in his side ebbed away. He was slightly envious; it had been several months since he had used his magic to such effect, especially considering the bond he had fostered with his wand. Dumbledore and Miss Pleasant were especially adamant about Lower School pupils avoiding the dangers of wandless Sorcery, and considering its unreliability when compared with prepared spells, the vast majority of which were designed with a focus in mind, it made little sense to disobey them. Until he came here, of course.

"Five paces - three - two..."

_Then again, she went straight for her off-hand... why?_

"FIRE!"

He Drove again, banking on the chance that she would honestly think him _that_ stupid. He was right, and the tennis ball-wave sailed along the platform as before. Harry was prepared, however. He drew himself short from the Drive, slashing his wand to the right as he arched his off-hand.

_"Propulso." _A splattering sound told him all he needed to know: as he suspected, Snape's Death-Grip Parry worked just as well on Hynes' magic as it did on Jinxes.

_Thanks, Professor. "Expelliarmus!"_

Hynes stared wide-eyed at the rosy pulse, not even flinching as her unused wand was pried from her fingers.

_Wasn't that a little_ too _easy? _he wondered, eyeing the dark-coloured wood with strange pang of guilt.

**"Conquest - three to one, Potter."**

Harry returned the wand immediately, legs on autopilot as he paced towards the third-round marker.

_"Take her down quickly, idiot," _muttered his own foot of holly_. "This isn't fair."_

"FIRE!"

Hynes went for her wand this time; Harry recognised the slingshot gesture immediately. Unfortunately for her, it was also his most practised spell.

"_Pu-"_

_"PULTO!" _Harry thrusted his wand forth, snapping his left hand over the right.

The anticipatory pull and overhand snap of the strengthened Pounding Hex were second nature to him, now. His wave dwarfed Hynes', which fizzled at the point of impact, and the brown-haired witch was shoved backwards in turn.

**"Knockdown - five to one, Potter. Hogwarts match!"**

Regardless of the applause, it certainly didn't feel like it. A glimpse at Hynes' unperturbed expression as she rose to her feet all but confirmed the words of his "mentor" earlier that day.

_We're Hogwarts kids... they're not._

He did feel guilty on some level, reflecting on the duel quite a while after his teammates clapped him on the back for a "brilliant show".

"I told you so."

He looked up at Cedric, whose attention was mostly focused elsewhere. Following his line of sight, Harry saw Hornby trading spellfire with a witch from Pearlclyfe on a circular sand platform.

"Is that Jenny Guan?" he asked.

Cedric nodded. "They're neck and neck."

"Oh," mumbled Harry, tracing the grooves of his wand handle. "I wonder where she was from, Hynes? The commentators didn't mention."

Cedric sniffed. "They wouldn't. They were there for you."

Harry said nothing.

"They left straight after you two started anyway, probably because she took first beat - _oooh_, knockdown - Hornby's on the ropes! She must be from some Hedge-school, by the looks of it."

"Where's that?"

"Everywhere," said Cedric, shrugging. "Just a group of local tutors who hold classes for village kids. It's how most people learn, you know?"

Harry's brow furrowed. "Why didn't she use her wand? Would they let her duel even if she couldn't?"

"Oh, any witch can use one... technically," he said before wincing. An off-Dance Puzzling Jinx from Jenny Guan covered Hornby's wand side as he was about to cast his own spell. The malformed Pounder collapsed with a _pop_, and the Ravenclaw crumpled to the floor.

**"Knockdown - five to two, Guan. Pearlclyfe match!"**

"He's not going to be happy," muttered Ainsley MacDougal next to him. She jumped to attention as the announcer called for **'Number Nineteen'**. "Yikes, that's me! In a bit, fellas!"

Cedric grinned. "Have a good one, Ainsley!"

Harry smiled in kind, though his soon faded as Hornby tromped over from the platform.

"I did tell him to watch out," said Cedric from the side of his mouth, his eyes alight as he punched Hornby on the arm. "No worries, Sy! Get her in the summer, eh?"

Hornby didn't respond at first, his face glum as he collapsed in the seat between his team mates.

"Bloody sand floor..." He exhaled. "How're the Seniors?"

Cedric squinted at the field. "Yaxley's hammering some poor sod from Redmoor."

"Figures."

"And that's Tonks right there. They were supposed to start five minutes ago, but the other team's coach isn't having it."

"I'd bet it's that stream of bubbles she used earlier," said Harry, chuckling.

Hornby's face perked up. "Oh yeah, the Sud-Face Hex. Nice one, that."

"The _what?_"

"Sud-Face," he repeated, gliding his hands against some imaginary surface in the air. "It's a little bit like the Sliding Charm, but it's ridiculously hard to dispel."

Harry huffed. "So it's okay when she does it..."

"What do you mean?" asked Cedric.

"A chat I had a while back," said Harry, crossing his arms. "A first-year from your House told me that Hufflepuffs are really anti-Dark Arts."

Cedric scratched his head. "Some, I guess. But there's Dark and there's _Dark._"

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Like the dreaded Pounding Hex?"

"Bones is being stupid," said Cedric, nodding slowly, "I'll give you that. But it's not because you used it. Everyone does."

"It's because you tried to murder Longbottom," added Hornby. "Twice."

"I did _not,_" started Harry, though he realised how fruitless it was when Cedric and Hornby started sniggering.

**"Conquest - three to zero, MacDougal."**

"Fancy that," said Harry, looking pointedly at Hornby. "Ainsley isn't half bad on sand, is she?"

Cedric laughed even harder; Hornby didn't say much after that.

* * *

"So it wasn't Fiendfyre, as they had feared?"

"No, no - standard Blasting Curse by the looks of it. A barrel of Ashwinder eggs in the basement tipped the scales in the fire's favour... "

There was no clear course for the investigation at Utherton. By nightfall, the Reversal Squad had long left, giving way for Patrol officials to consult nearby residents. A squadron of Hit Wizards had been spread across the town boundaries, but experts and onlookers alike had all but made up their minds: the burning of the Goblin's Chest was deliberate, and its owner - old Pat Henleigh - was the culprit, even if he had expired in the process.

Albus, however, was sceptical.

"I would still find it queer..."

"_What, _Albus?"

He looked the wizard before him in the eye. Bartemius Crouch was the living picture of defeat; his skin was sallow, and the normally perfect parting in his hair had frayed considerably over the course of the day.

"There is still the matter of the after-hours visitor," said Albus, peering over at the scorched heap of timber that was once the Goblin's Chest.

Crouch's nostrils flared slightly as he exhaled.

"We cannot _verify_ that, Albus," he said, grasping at thin air with trembling fingers. "Any such 'wand' would have perished in the blaze. For all we know, he could have used a Blasting Rod. Would she have known the difference?"

"You underestimate your fellow wizards, Barty. She clearly witnessed his using it to clean- "

Crouch groaned over the rebuttal. "Moments before he pointed it at her, yes. Delusions, Albus! Easily explained, she was under duress - the Muggles make up things to rationalise that which they cannot understand. The sparkless are no different!"

"A salient observation, Director," said a soft voice nearby.

Crouch bristled at the sound.

"Wizard Malfoy," he muttered, swivelling around with a terse bow of his head. "What brings you here?"

"Utherton _is_ under my jurisdiction," the blond wizard replied matter-of-factly, drifting past the two to survey the wreck site. "Trying to Apparate in earlier proved impossible. Even my Keys were refused entry."

"Correct, Lucius," said Albus. "The investigation required as much. Knight Buses were available, however."

Lucius glanced back. "Indeed. No words as of yet, Director?"

Crouch stayed silent.

"Very well," said Lucius with a fleeting smile. "I shall take my leave - a good night to the both of you."

And with that, he Disapparated.

Albus chuckled. "I rather hoped that he would stay."

"Did you, Albus?" said Crouch, his eyes drawn. "He knows damned well that you aren't here for the arson."

"You are referring to the _other _investigation, I assume?"

Crouch grunted the affirmative.

"Lucius always did exhibit a curious streak," said Albus, placing his hands behind his back as he strolled towards the wreckage. "Much to his own detriment as well as ours, in fact. He spreads his attention far too thin - the Prewett inquest is only one among his menagerie of pet interests."

Crouch scoffed. "One could say the same about you, _Headmaster._"

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Hey there again! Sorry for the wait - the next chapter's likely to be a fairly late update as well, unfortunately, but I'll try and keep it fairly steady for future instalments. Many thanks to those who reviewed after the last update, namely _Arte of Warfare, FireAndSteel, QE1, Zarathustra46, Emma-girl _and _flame7926. _Once again, thanks for reading!


	16. Rubeus Leads The Dance

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **The first-years take a break from revision, Harry writes a pen pal, and Snape does some scavenger hunting.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen – Rubeus Leads The Dance**

_"No sooner shall we perish than the Muggles would destroy themselves. Certainly, to ignore the divinely ordained superiority of wizardkind would be to deny our greatest Epiphany at Media. But in the knowledge of these distinctions, are we absolved of all responsibility to safeguard the welfare of our fully mortal neighbours? Is it righteous for us, who enjoy true audience with their gods, to sit content as these atrocities are committed not yards away from our doorsteps?_

_"Those who care not fail to see the larger picture. For every ten Muggles tortured, and every hundred killed, a handful will escape, and they will remember. Five or more might prevail against an unarmed wizard, as many are wont to be. Moreover, should the Trishula claim victory, where would they settle? At the forest elves? The goblins? Surely not us, for is there much of a difference between the common hedge wizard and the enchanter, the priestess and all but the mightiest sorcerers to a horde of Inferi? _

_"There will always be room for an even Greater Good."_

Roger Thomas Longbottom, Chief-wizard of Elmet speaking at the 278th international Senecans' Conference in Sindh State, Bharat Federation (1958)

* * *

"Seventh line?"

"Ah... I _know_ this."

"There is more than one right answer- "

"And thousands of wrong ones, too... hm... Tri-delta base, Pc over tCi capital... "

"_And?_"

"Um... an Eros-ribbon to insulate it? Between the base and cap."

"Brilliant, Lisa! That's an _O_ answer - take a Chocolate Frog."

Exam season was little more than a month away which, for Hermione at least, meant that it was as good as here. Frequent revision sessions supplementing the forty-hour week that they were already subjected to was essential in her opinion, especially as she desired access to the widest range of options possible for her O.W.L subjects. Even Ron became a regular fixture at her study group, albeit due to a relentless campaign of evangelism on her part.

"I think I'm done with Artificing, guys," said Terry Boot, rubbing his temples. "Can we go with something a little softer for now?"

"No. This is the whole point," replied Lisa. "It's our most difficult class. The other papers are going to pale in comparison."

Terry groaned as he head-butted the table.

Hermione gave him a long look before checking her watch. "He might be right, you know. We've been back-to-back on common questions for the past hour-and-a-half."

"I suppose," said Lisa, turning to Harry. "Sorcery, then?"

Harry made to open his mouth, but Ron beat him to the punch.

"Break?" he said, grinning.

"We can't afford to take a break!" Lisa shot back, holding _An Introduction to Enchantment _in the air as she leafed through its several hundred pages.

Padma Patil rapped a finger against her lips. "Actually, that might be just what we need."

"Come again?"

Harry chuckled. "Didn't you just suggest it, Ron?"

"Yeah," he said, "but she's a Ravenclaw."

"Fair play."

"Anyway," said Padma, rolling her eyes, "a Professor at Salem wrote that studying all the time is just as bad as doing none at all. We should go out for a bit, flex our legs and stuff."

Aside from Lisa's perpetual frown of worry, Padma's (and Ron's) suggestion was a popular one, and the red-and-blue sextet left the musty shelves of the Library for a lawn by the Lake.

"This is how witchfolk are supposed to live," said Ron, spreading out his arms as he took a liberal whiff of the air. "Wind brushing your skin, grass under your boots... _Mother_ Nature."

Harry arched an eyebrow, nudging Hermione's arm. "Athair Gordon over there... is he trying out for the priesthood?"

Hermione sniggered as she rummaged through her satchel for the weekend's _Crier. _"You know that he has his profound moments. It's just that they're usually followed by- "

"Broom race, anyone?"

_Classic. _She laughed again.

The party soon broke away, with Hermione and Lisa opting to relax in relative quiet. As Ron and Terry argued over the plausibility of raiding the broom stores without repercussions, Harry and Padma took to wading around the edge of the Lake, and had hurled a number of Chocolate Frogs between them into its depths to no discernible effect.

"I don't think I see it, Harry... "

"It'll come. Their deaths won't be in vain, trust me."

"They weren't alive in the first place!"

"What on Earth are they up to?" asked Lisa, crossing her arms over her knees.

Hermione shook her head, not looking up from her newspaper. "Harry's convinced that throwing chocolate into the Lake will irk the Giant Squid."

"Why would it do that?"

"Heavens knows - he claims that the Headmaster fought the Squid for a bet once and that it's hated sweets ever since. Or something like that."

Lisa snorted. "He's so weird sometimes."

"Aren't you one to talk... oh!"

"What?"

Hermione ignored her for the time being, her attention completely focused on the Page Twelve headline.

**The Saturn Crier, April 25th 1992**

**PETTIGREW PANIC: THE MAN BEHIND THE MYSTERY**

**by Helen MORRISON**

_Who is Peter Pettigrew? This is a riddle which has plagued columns and airwaves across the country for several months now, but is it even the right question? Should we be asking who associated with him instead?_

_Little is known about his family. His parents' graves, along with others sharing the surname can be found in the cemetery at Sherwood Green. His origins are humble; no Pettigrew is known to have graced the Wizengamot or Ministry, nor can the name be found in any Guild registry, but young Peter's (now approximately 32) name was etched in the Hogwarts record at the time of his birth, and he must have passed all of the secondary criteria. We know this because Pettigrew completed his N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts School in 1978, and he was purportedly a good friend to the pair of tragic upper-class duellists in James Potter and Sirius Black._

_"I remember him, vaguely," says Bertram Aubrey, a Charms instructor at The Magus Anglesey's School and Hogwarts alumnus. Aubrey, 34, recalls how close the younger wizards were in their school days._

_"He was a tiny kid, chubby face and beady eyes. Skittish-looking. He wouldn't stand out much, if not for the fact that he was so different to Potter and Black, and that other tall kid - Lupus, I think."_

_A cursory search of the name "Lupus" in the Hogwarts archives proved unsuccessful, though a Remus J. Lupin is recorded as having enrolled in the same year and House as Pettigrew, Potter and Black. Interestingly, the name and birth date appear on only two other documents - the 1963 Census and the Werewolf Register._

_"It's practically impossible," says Dirk Cresswell, spokesperson for the Beast Divison in the Ministry's Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures. "And if it was possible, they couldn't be the same person. We'll concede that the office was poorly managed in the Sixties, what with the general focus being elsewhere, but the register clearly states that the boy was bitten at the age of 5, and the ink used in the register was enchanted to prevent or correct those kinds of errors. _

_"Furthermore, as one's lycanthropy fully takes hold after a few transformations, wizard-born werewolves are magically indistinguishable from their formerly Muggle counterparts. This Lupin would never be able to cast a spell, let alone go to Hogwarts!"_

_Whatever the case may be, Hogwarts alumni remember as much about Remus Lupin as they do Peter Pettigrew. An inconspicuous character, a quiet but constant shadow behind his more celebrated peers. Efforts to interview the alleged werewolf have also proved fruitless: he appears to be as missing as Pettigrew was until this year. _

_So why the focus on Peter Pettigrew, a wizard who by all accounts - save his first-rate schooling - is decidedly unremarkable? Scores of witchfolk disappear and reappear every year without so much as a word. Do the Ministry have sufficient grounds for linking Pettigrew to Wizard Prewett's assassination? As a growing number of sightings of the elusive wizard are reported to Witch Watcher stations nationwide, we can only speculate._

"I don't believe it."

"_What, _Hermione?"

_Pettigrew was a friend of Harry's dad..._

She looked over at the Lake again. Harry and Padma had abandoned their search for the Squid, opting to splash each other instead. Ron and Terry had joined them.

_They would have done the same thing, years ago._

And yet it was so human, so innocent, for someone who was oh so surely fated to kill.

"It just doesn't add up," she said, thrusting the _Crier_ into Lisa's hands. "The Potters died because they were anti-Grindelwald. Prewett died because he was pro-Muggle. So if Pettigrew was Harry's dad's friend... "

Lisa's eyes flitted left and right as she skimmed the page. "Christ - a werewolf who can do _witchcraft_? We need to find that guy!"

"You know," murmured Hermione, her gaze trained on the others, "I was thinking the exact same thing."

* * *

At Hogwarts, there simply weren't enough hours in the day. Harry knew that the right magic could give one more time, and why the School neglected to employ it was beyond him. Between his regular subjects and extra-curricular activities, he was seriously considering giving up a significant portion of his sleep.

As end-of-year exams loomed over the horizon, Theurgy proved to be a nuisance once again, and Harry's otherwise high performance throughout the curriculum wasn't enough to nurse his ego. It was especially so when Ron and Neville, self-proclaimed enemies of independent study, actually excelled at the subject: Professor Veness awarded them twenty House points for casting a perfect Boon of Fresh Spring on a lump of Hippogriff stool.

In spite of Mr Shacklebolt's ever-growing enthusiasm and his wand being more talkative than ever, Harry had made marginal progress in his Wandsong tutorials. He could tell one of the spelled balls apart from the others - almost instinctively when his eyes were closed - but the knowledge of the specific Charms affecting each one still eluded him.

Duelling Squad sessions were becoming more intense as well. While Harry and the other fresh Juniors wouldn't be competing in the summer matches, Merrythought did subject them to a gruelling training schedule. Gruelling specifically, because Harry and Bones were paired together once more, with Hornby pegged to join the Senior reserves next year. Competition matches were held in groups of three, and due to both of Cedric's team mates advancing to their fifth year come September, Harry and his Hufflepuff nemesis were being groomed as the new generation of Team Foxtrot - much to the consternation of some of the older Junior reserve duellists. Harry was perplexed by it, too. He had but one match to his name, and Bones would rather flay him for her own satisfaction rather than play nice for the Squad's. However, Merrythought urged him to trust her judgement, and so Harry did. Although Bones' formidable Gorgon-stare showed no signs of retirement, she hadn't Cursed him yet.

Behind his back, at least.

Whenever Harry could wrangle a spare moment, he dedicated the time to his most recent project: finding his father in the Grimoire. Unfortunately, it appeared that being able to write to an ancestor required them to have contributed to the tome before passing away. Considering James' age, cause of death and absence from the Grimoire's pages so far, that seemed highly unlikely. Writing to his grandfather again would be his best bet.

_Charlus Fleamont Potter?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_Harry James! How do you do, my son?_

_Hello _

Harry felt a twinge in his gut; even writing the word felt strange...

_Granddad, I'm fine. I've got so much homework to get through these days, but it's fun. I made Starting Juniors for Duelling next year!_

_Well done, Harry! Just like Jim! We would all be so proud._

_Thank you, Granddad. It's so eerie that I'm writing to you like this. It's as if we were talking between worlds. How does it work?_

_I cannot recall the process in detail as it is a piece of magic that I am largely unfamiliar with, but the results are very much like those of a portrait. We just happen to leave our imprinting materials through letters and blood._

_I guess that's why I can't find Dad in here._

_That may be the case. Some of us are not afforded the opportunity to sufficiently contribute to the Grimoire before the final curtain. I am sure that my brother did not, for instance._

Harry pursed his lips, unsure if he wanted to take the subject further, but his curiosity got the better of him.

_Does it have anything to do with the War?_

_I am afraid it does, my son. Do not misunderstand me, the Potters were never as numerous as, say, the Weasley family, though had things been different I daresay you would share your name with a handful of cousins. Although I am unsure of exactly what I can feel between these pages, I cannot say that I am glad to hear of our Jim's passing so soon, and in that same fashion. But know this, Harry. He succeeded in handing this Grimoire to you, and every single one of your words, and your blood, no less, now belong to this text._

_But in that case, Dad must have known about this book. Wouldn't he have written at least something in it?_

_I told Jim of the Grimoire's existence after we purchased his wand. I admit to restricting his access to it for a couple of years, though he was still in school at the time we began to share it. Whatever happened after I wrote my last page in here, I believe Jim had his reasons. Trust your father, Harry, for we raised a loving and righteous wizard. _

_I will, Grandd-_

"Whatcha writing there, Harry? Thought _you'd_ have all your homework done."

Startled, Harry snapped the book shut as he shot a look at the dorm entrance. It was Neville, looking slightly amused as he held Trevor in one hand and a soggy brown paper bag in the other.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What's in there?"

Neville giggled. "Flobberworms - got my cousin Ollie to buy them from Hogsmeade. Trevor's got a huge appetite."

"Should've asked if you could pick some up for Hedwig," said Harry, tucking the Grimoire under a spare set of robes at the bottom of his trunk. "Those owl treats are wasted on her, I swear."

Neville set the bag down on his bed, plucking out the fattest, slimiest worm Harry had ever laid eyes on.

"So's that your diary, then?" he asked. "All about Tracey, I'm guessin- "

"Who told you that?"

Neville winked at him as he fed the worm to Trevor, who burped. "She's right, mate - you're too easy."

_Greengrass._

_"Would it be any other?" _breathed his wand from his bedside table.

"Well you can tell Greengrass that she's mistaken," said Harry. "I'm just reading ahead for Sorcery."

"Which you have an _O _in?"

Harry frowned. "Yes, but... for next year."

Neville laughed as another Flobberworm was wrested by Trevor's eager tongue.

"And that's why I don't tell you lot anything," said Harry, diving head-first into his pillow.

It wasn't until the next evening, during the School's Beltane ceremony, that Harry's mind wandered back to his conversation with Neville. Similar to the Samhain ritual, it was held in the Courtyard, though there were no Vanishing offerings here. Instead, a large bonfire was Conjured from an iron basin, and Mr Hagrid paraded a herd of creatures (led by a unicorn, no less) around it while Athair Gordon chanted in his famous, guttural monotone from an old hymnal.

The air was crisp and brought with it a sweltering heat. Harry was sweating buckets.

"I wish he'd stop," he whispered to no one in particular.

"He's just professing his love," said Neville. Harry gave him a look. "Through the written word, mate. Just like you!"

Harry flared his nostrils, balling his fists as he fixed his gaze on the bonfire.

_"He's such a hypocrite," _breathed his wand. _"My, it's toasty, isn't it?"_

_What are you on about?_

_"You mean you aren't hot?"_

_Of course I am,_ thought Harry, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. _What do you mean by "hypocrite"?_

_"Your memory, idiot, honestly... Don't you remember him always scribbling in that diary until a few months ago?"_

Harry gasped.

"What?" said Neville.

"Just remembered," replied Harry, feeling a smirk creep past his lips. "Didn't _you _have a dia- "

"Potter," hissed a voice from behind them. Harry turned back to meet the eyes of a thin-lipped McGonagall. "Shut _up._"

Harry ducked his head in an attempt to shrink away from the Professor's rancor. As he glanced back up, he couldn't help but notice Neville's pallor, cast in the scarlet glaze of the bonfire though they were.

His wand harrumphed. _"Serves him right!"_

Following the rituals, the School bells struck twelve. Mr Pringle and Mr Watts erected a gleaming silver pole - at least thirty feet tall, Harry reckoned - in the middle of the Courtyard. A squadron of tethers flew wide from its apex, each one flashing through the colours of the rainbow as they were led by a troupe of costumed students dancing around the base.

"It's so crude," said Hermione, shaking her head as they ambled past the scene.

"What is?" asked Neville.

"_This_," she said, gesturing at the pole. "It's racism, pure and simple."

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. "Um... "

Hermione rounded on him. "What, Harry?"

"Well," he replied, scratching his head, "how do you figure that, exactly?"

"Do you need me to spell it out for you?"

"I guess," he said, pointing at the dancing pupils. "I mean, that's Tracey with the wings over there."

"You _would_ notice Tracey," said Neville, sniggering.

Harry ignored him. "Pretty sure that's Kaaj Kokhar under that crow's head too, and- "

"I'm not talking about _that_," she said.

"Talking about what?" asked Neville. "Ray schism?"

"Muggle stuff," said Harry, looking away to avoid Hermione's piercing stare.

She sniffed. "Anyway, like I was saying, it _is _racism. Do you two have any idea what they're celebrating?"

"Of course," said Neville. "Being safe from beasts and stuff. Beltane saved my Aunt from going bankrupt, you know."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "How?"

"Nogtails," he replied, shrugging. "We did the ritual at her farm once. She never saw the nasty things again."

"Rubbish," said Hermione, snorting. "Wizards will write anything to make themselves sound like the victims. Beltane doesn't protect us from other creatures, it just _mocks _them."

Neville squinted at her. "Er... you what?"

Hermione exhaled. "Okay, Neville," she said, rubbing her forehead. "What does the pole symbolise?"

"Erm... it's er, how do you say it? Egg, Idriz...?"

"_Yggdrasil_, yes," said Hermione, turning back to the silver pole. "Or that's what they tell you. But we stole the maypole from the elves even before we enslaved them, and now we use it at Beltane to celebrate our dominance over the magical world. It's just _sick!"_

"Why don't you go back to your own, then?" someone jeered from behind them. Hermione spun around to confront the voice which happened to belong to Smith, who was flanked by Bones as usual.

"What a plonker," muttered Harry, turning to Neville as he tried to tune out the squabbling pair. "How do you know him, anyway?"

"He's mates with Draco," he replied, "whose dad goes to the club that my Uncle goes to down in London. I think his granddad goes to the same one, actually."

"I thought you said that London was 'goblin country'?"

"It is," said Neville, frowning, "after sundown anyw-"

His reply was cut off by a resounding _clap_. Harry and Neville gasped at the angry red blotch on Smith's left cheek.

"Don't you _ever _say that word again," said Hermione, her voice low and quavering.

Smith sneered. "Or what?"

"Or getting Cursed by Harry is the last thing you'll have to worry about."

Smith and Bones turned to each other, sharing a laugh.

"Really, Granger?" Smith peered at Harry. "Potter, you up for it then?"

"For what? This has nothing to do with me."

"Doubles, of course," he said, glancing back at Bones, who chuckled. "I mean we can do, what? Two wizards, two witches? Well, a witch-and-a-bit... "

"Watch it, Zach," growled Neville.

"Just having a laugh, Long_bottom_," said Smith, grinning. "So what do you say then? Friday night at the Club?"

"Hermione isn't even a member," said Harry, though a blazing look from the bushy-haired witch shut him up.

"_We'll_ be there," she said, turning back to the two Hufflepuffs, who started laughing again as they sauntered off.

"Are you sure about this, Hermione?" said Neville, his gaze following their retreating forms. "You realise that he took that as a _challenge_, right?"

"Are you doubting my chances?" she asked, looking pointedly at Neville and Harry as if daring them to challenge her.

In all honesty, Harry wasn't sure. After all, Hermione did get the drop on him all those months ago in Diagon Alley. But a lot had changed since then, and there was far more to duelling than knowing the spells._.._

Harry let out a dry chuckle. "How those two got into Hufflepuff is beyond me."

"Blood," said Neville.

_"It's always blood,"_ muttered his wand.

* * *

Potioneering was the perfect game of chance for the first years' red-and-green cohort. The lesson was an equal opportunity witchunt; by the ten-minute mark, Professor Snape's victim for the rest of the double period slot would be decided, and the Deputy Master did not play favourites, meaning that his fellow Slytherins were far from safe. Today was Randall Ogden's turn, however, and he wasn't taking it well.

"... adding four mistletoe berries before crushing into a medium-fine powder, and adding how many pinches - Ogden?"

"Er, h-half? Sir."

Snape ceased his usual pacing along the length of the blackboard to scrutinise the small boy, who seemed to wilt under the pressure of the Professor's beady-eyed stare.

Snape hummed. "We add _half _a pinch, class, to our brew at which point we stir how many times, Ogden?"

"I - ah, five, sir. Y-yes, five."

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Clockwise, sir," Randall added.

"Clockwise... you're sure, Ogden?"

He nodded.

"Very well. We take our runcible to the brew, stirring five turns clockwise and thus completing the Potion... "

Randall breathed a sigh of relief.

"... which proceeds to spew three quarts of corrosive vapour into the atmosphere, maiming everyone within a four-desk radius of the site. Congratulations, Mister Ogden. Ten points from Gryffindor.

"In light of Ogden's failure to retain the material," said Snape over the collective groans of the Gryfindors, "I believe it would be prudent to ensure that his is an isolated case. You will write two feet on the applications of the Masking Mixture and three on the complications of an incompetently brewed Forgetfulness Potion, due for the Monday lesson after next."

The groans intensified as the Slytherins joined in chorus.

"Your Housemate's a real genius, Potter," said Draco, his partner for the day as they filed out of the dungeon.

Harry simply shook his head. Even if Randall's answers were submitted to _The Practical Potioneer, _Snape still would have set them a mountain of homework in his opinion.

"I tell you, we're lucky that old Slughorn's Head of Slytherin," he continued. "Snape wouldn't let us get away with anything. Kind of ironic, wouldn't you say?"

"What is?"

"Well, Slughorn taught Snape," said Draco, "so you'd think they would be quite alike."

Harry stopped in his tracks.

_Slughorn taught Snape. Of _course_..._

"You all right there, Potter?"

Harry nodded, his mind elsewhere. "Yeah, I'm fine. Catch up with you later?"

"Whatever," said Draco as he turned away. "Just don't be late for tonight - I still want to see Smith's face when he loses to a Mudblood!"

Harry cursed under his breath; he should have known that Smith would notify anyone and everyone before the fact. That wasn't his concern, though - not right now, at least. He headed straight for the dungeon, rapping the iron door twice.

"Enter."

The door gave way on its own. As Harry crept towards the Professor's desk, Snape didn't bother to look up from the stack of parchment he was grading.

"Um, Professor?"

His gaze stayed fixed to the papers. "Mister Potter."

Harry couldn't afford to falter now. He rolled back his shoulders and took a deep breath.

"I was wondering, sir, how I might find Professor Slughorn? It's just that he's hardly ever in one place, sir, and- "

"Do you find yourself dissatisfied with my teaching, Mister Potter?"

Harry gulped. "Er, no Professor. Not at all."

Snape set down his quill, intertwined his fingers and pressed them to his chin as his eyes bored into Harry's.

"Then why," he said slowly, "pray tell, would you wish to consult Professor Slughorn?"

"Well," said Harry, grasping at the sleeves of his robes, "Professor Dumbledore said that he taught my mother, sir."

Snape's eyes widened ever so slightly. "Did he, now?"

_"Did he, now?" _mimicked his wand.

_Shut up, _thought Harry, noting that Snape's gaze momentarily hovered over his pocket.

"He did, sir. I wanted to ask him about her, but he's never really around. I thought that because you - you know - teach the same subject, that- "

"That I could relay the message?"

Harry averted his gaze; the potioneer's eyes threatened to drill through his brain.

"If you might, sir," he said, nodding.

For the next few moments, Harry was painfully aware of a leaking tap in the distance.

"Well, Mister Potter," said Snape finally, "I regret to inform you that I am _not _Professor Slughorn's secretary, post owl or otherwise intermediary for such trivial enquiries. I suggest that you peruse your Almanac for his office hours."

Ignoring the feeling of a blow to his gut, Harry blinked hard and nodded once more.

"Sorry to bother you, Professor," he mumbled, shuffling away as fast as he could.

"Potter," said Snape just as Harry reached the threshold. "Wait there."

_"Maybe he's off to get the cane," _whispered his wand as Snape skulked into the storeroom.

The Professor returned a few seconds later, his spindly fingers clutching what appeared to be a newspaper clipping.

"It was lying there for years, I would assume," he muttered, handing it to Harry. "Amongst all the clutter."

Harry eagerly scanned the clipping, which was dominated by the photograph of a beaming young witch gripping a phial-shaped crystal trophy:

_Hogwarts Herald, June '77 Issue_

_GOOD HEAVENS, MISS EVANS!_

_Hogwarts' brightest are on a roll this year! Sixth-year Gryffindor Lily Evans snagged first place at the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship in Oslo last week for her antidote to the excruciating Angel's Trumpet Draught. Judges were quoted as-_

"If you would read it in your _own _time, Mister Potter," said Snape.

Harry stuffed the clipping into his outer robe pocket. "Sorry, Professor. A-and, erm, thank you very much."

The potioneer snarled a little, so Harry took his leave.

"I will have a word with Professor Slughorn," he said as Harry walked away, "but I make no promises on his behalf."

Harry glanced back, smiling. "Much appreciated, Professor."

* * *

**"Friday Night Fracas!"** boomed the voice of Bobby Jordan from the central platform.

It wasn't news. Not any more.

Scores of pupils, many of whom had probably never set foot in the Studio before, gathered to watch the spectacle. Harry was lost among a sea of bloodthirsty students, trying his best to push against the current as he searched for Hermione. Just as he was ready to admit defeat, he felt a large hand clutch at the nape of his robe.

"Oi! How you feeling?" Whipping his head around at the raspy voice, Harry found Ron, who happened to dwarf a sizeable portion of the crowd. With all his might, he squeezed through a chatty group of Slytherins to greet his dorm mate.

"Don't worry about me," said Harry, brushing down his robes. "It's Hermione that they're after. Know where she is, by any chance?"

Ron shook his head as he scanned the room. "Haven't seen her since Latin, mate."

That was natural; her Friday evenings were devoted to the Library, exam season or no. But surely not tonight?

"Harry!"

Neville scurried over, Dean and Seamus following close behind.

"Where's Hermione?" he asked, wiping his brow. "She hasn't bolted, has she?"

Ron scoffed. "Never! Remember who you're talking about, eh?"

"Look, I'm just saying," replied Neville, raising his hands in defence. "People are talking already."

"About what?" blustered Ron. "Jordan called it less than a minute ago!"

**"And the first bout of the night is... Smith and Bones versus Granger and Potter!"**

"She can't have done a runner," Ron shouted over the din of cheers. Suddenly, Harry was grabbed by the neck for the second time that night, and dragged into a agonising headlock.

"Harry!"

"Good old Harry!"

"Dependable old Harry!"

"Ol' faithfu- oi!"

Tugged by the front of his robes, Harry was yanked out of the hold by Ron.

"Knock it off, you lot!" he said, glaring at none other than Fred and George Weasley.

"Easy there, Ronniekins," said George, clapping his younger brother on the back. "It's just business after all."

"And what would business be," said Fred, waggling his eyebrows at Harry, "without a little tête-à-tête with our partner here?"

Harry shuddered as George snaked an arm around his shoulder.

"Now you see, Mister Harry," he said, flexing the fingers of his free hand, "we've got a lot of silver riding on this duel."

"And we aren't saying you couldn't go it alone," said Fred, waving his palms in protest. "Not in the slightest!"

"But we've put down money for two wands, y'see, so- "

"_Save_ it."

Hermione strode up to them with a determined gaze, which was somewhat offset by the bright red blemish in the middle of her forehead. Lisa was cowering behind her.

Harry gawked at the mark. "What happened _there_, Hermione?"

She grimaced. "Stinging Hex - nothing major, I'll go to Madam Pomfrey later." Harry doubted that it was anything but major, if the intermittent twitches across her features were anything to go by.

"But I can- "

She shook her head vigorously. "I said I'll fix it later."

Impatient and no longer in the mood for Hermione's stubbornness, Harry stepped forward.

_"Finite Incantatem," _he said, flourishing his wand.

The spot didn't vanish, but her eyebrows weren't fidgeting any more. He would do well to thank Mr Shacklebolt later.

Harry fought to hide a grin. "Got some practice in, did you?"

"I said I was sorry!" whinged Lisa, who looked to be on the verge of tears. "I didn't even think it would work!"

"And I said it was okay, Lisa," said Hermione, looking at her feet. "Can we just get this over with?"

Harry nodded as they shuffled off to the platform. "Sure thing."

Pushing the calls of "You are Gold!" from Fred (or George, not that it mattered) to the back of his mind, Harry cleaved through the crowd with Hermione hot on his heels.

**"And here come our challengers! Our little lions, our pride of the Pride, Granger and Potter!"**

"Is it like this every week?" whispered Hermione as they climbed the steps of the platform.

Harry shrugged. "Search me. I hardly ever go to these things."

Not moments later, Smith and Bones stepped forward from the crowd, the former of whom marched over to Jordan wearing an expectant look.

**"Oh, yeah - Smith and Bones, everyone... **_Quietus."_

After a few choice words with the blond-haired Hufflepuff, a despondent Jordan stalked over to Harry and Hermione.

"He says you challenged him?" he said, hands on hips.

Hermione was about to protest, but Harry nodded.

"I guess so," he said, flashing a sheepish glance at his gaping companion. "She made the threat."

Jordan heaved a deep sigh as he scratched his skull.

"That's all that matters, all right," he said. "So yeah, he wants you to switch hands, Harry."

Harry grunted. "Still? Are you _kidding _me?"

"Sorry man, but it's Satisfaction Rules on Friday. She challenged him, he sets the boundaries."

_"Typical," _spat his wand.

In all fairness, Harry wasn't surprised either. Smith had never bothered them without support, and he often shied away from dirtying his hands unless there were six of his friends running around to provide cover.

_Is Smith really that scared of left-handers? _he thought as he took the handle of his wand with his right which, worryingly, felt as if it wasn't holding anything at all. He felt his insides twist.

"Harry?" whispered Hermione, her eyes slightly narrowed.

He nodded. "I'm all right."

_"This feels _wrong, _idiot."_

_You're telling me, _he thought back, _but we'll have to make do for now._

"_Sonorus. _**All righty, then! Are we ready to- **"

Whatever it was that Jordan wanted to know would remain a mystery as the chimes of the School bells drowned out his voice, amplified though it was.

"Why isn't it stopping?" Harry said aloud several seconds later.

"What?" shouted Hermione.

"I said _why isn't it- _never mind!"

He saw Jordan try to call out to the crowd, cursing in frustration as he brought his wand to his throat yet again.

_"-ing Sonorus... _**EVERYONE TO THE GREAT HALL, NOW!"**

* * *

"At approximately a quarter-past nine this evening, Mr Pringle was... accosted by an unknown pupil."

The Hall was abuzz with frenzied whispers as Professor McGonagall addressed the students.

"Serves him right," said Dean. "Nicked my Whizzbees, the toss- "

_Crack! _The chamber fell silent.

"Although the perpetrator's face was obscured," said McGonagall, sheathing her wand, "Mr Pringle maintains that they were wearing Gryffindor robes."

"Yep! Couldn't tell the face," the ruddy white-haired wizard piped from the High Table. " 'Twas dark, Professor."

McGonagall acknowledged him with a faint nod to her left. "Which is why we are asking any students who may have information to come forward."

Fay Dunbar scoffed. "Like anyone's gonna do that... "

"Otherwise, we will be forced to restrict travel between the gates until further notice as an enhanced security measure."

The Hall was thrown into uproar, which was understandable: Hogsmeade Village was fair game after classes for everyone but the Lower School.

_Crack!_

"Those who can report anything of note are advised to consult their Head or Deputy Head of House during regular office hours."

Ron made a face. "Deputy? Since when was there a Deputy?"

"It's Mr Watts, Ron," whispered Hermione, her eyes glued to the front of the Hall. "You of all people must have had detention with him."

"Guess I'm just _that _bad," he replied, smirking. A round of muffled sniggers could be heard from the surrounding Gryffindors.

The students were sent to their quarters soon after. As soon as Harry reached the first step to his dormitory, though, he felt something tug at his sleeve.

"We need to talk." He turned around, his eyes meeting Hermione's. "Can you wait down here for a minute?"

He frowned. "Sure. Is everything okay?"

She skipped off to the girls' staircase. "Just wait here," she said.

Harry sighed, collapsing into a nearby armchair as he stared at the ceiling.

He heard a loud cough in the distance. "Didn't you hear Professor McGonagall, Potter?"

At the head of the boys' staircase was Percy Weasley, who looked frighteningly pale even in the moonlight from the Common Room window.

"Come on - off to bed."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "But it's Friday. Why would she care- "

"The safety of the student body is the Deputy Headmistress' primary concern."

"Is it unsafe to be up right now?" asked Harry. A moment of chilling silence followed; the gleam in Percy's spectacles only added to the menacing mood.

The Prefect sniffed, his nose upturned. "Have it your way, Potter," he finally said, marching past the door.

_"What an arse," _snarled his wand. _"Nothing like his brothers."_

_He definitely takes his badge seriously. I wonder what had him so spooked, though?_

Soon a prisoner to his own thoughts, Harry's head jerked upwards as he was roused by the sound of shoes tapping down the girls' staircase.

"Thanks for waiting," said Hermione as she bounded into another armchair, slamming a copy of the _Crier,_ a book and some scrap paper down on the table.

"So what's this all about, then?" asked Harry.

"Well... "

"Because if it's Smith, then surely you know that he's a waste of breath by now."

Hermione regarded him with a heavy-lidded stare.

"Please, Harry."

"But you let Lisa Hex y... never mind." He gave her a meek smile. "Sorry. Go ahead."

She exhaled, idly nursing her shoulder. "I wanted to delay approaching you about it at first. I did tell Lisa last week, but she's the only one, I swear!"

Harry felt a tug at his gut. "It's not something I've done, is it?"

"No, no," she replied, waving her hands to shush him, "nothing like that. But you should have been the first person to go to. I'm really sorry."

"About _what_, Hermione?"

Her eyes fell to the floor as she grasped at a loose strand of frizzy hair.

"Did you... read the _Crier _last weekend?"

Harry snorted. After reading the article about Neville's parents several months ago, he had given that particular paper a wide berth ever since.

She met his eyes again. "I think you should. P-page twelve."

He cast a leery look at the newspaper lying in front of them, before grabbing it and thumbing through its pages.

"Pettigrew... James _Potter... "_

Hermione winced.

He let go of the paper, mouth agape. "He was friends with my _Dad?_"

She nodded, somewhat mournfully.

"I should have said, Harry," she said, picking up the book. "I'm sorry."

Harry spluttered. "Forget me! What about Ron?"

"He doesn't know, yet. We can't."

Harry ran a trembling hand through his hair as the thought sank in.

_Pettigrew went to school with, shared a dorm with, even..._

He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that simple association wouldn't make his father guilty. That's even _if _Pettigrew was Prewett's killer.

_"But birds of a feather, Harry..." _breathed his wand grimly.

Harry felt his stomach tighten further at Miss Meacham's staple saying.

_But he couldn't. There's _no_ way he would..._

Either way, Pettigrew was alive. Alive, and likely knew far more about his father than any other living wizard.

"They mentioned another wizard in there," said Hermione. "Remus Lupin."

"He knew my Dad, too?"

Hermione nodded. "But it just doesn't add up."

She flicked through the book she had been holding, flipping it around so that it was facing Harry.

"This one, right here," she said, pointing to a photograph on the top left. "It's of the Gryffindor Leavers in 1978."

He recognised his Dad immediately, centre of the front row. In the row above, a long-haired boy was flicking his ear - Sirius Black, he thought - while a stout, mousy-looking boy next to him giggled all the while. Hermione shuffled over to Harry's seat.

"I think that's Pettigrew," she murmured, pointing at the stout boy, "given the description in the _Crier."_

Harry hummed. "And Lupin?"

"I think that's him," she replied, pointing at a waify, whiskered wizard next to Black. "But it really doesn't add up, Harry. The _Crier _says that the only Remus Lupin who appears on any magical register is a confirmed werewolf. So I looked a little deeper... "

"Naturally."

"But from what I've read, Lupin was a regular pupil. Great grades, a Prefect... he was even a member of the Camera Club."

Harry squinted at the photograph. Lupin's eyes did their best to avoid his.

"He does look kind of ill," said Harry. "But can werewolves do magic?"

Hermione frowned. "Their own, of a sort," she said, putting a finger to her lips. "But it's nothing like ours. It's limited to their teeth and claws, I think, and they can't do much with it apart from... well. They certainly can't cast _our_ spells. I asked Mr Weasley if he could check at the Registry for me, and it's true."

She slipped one of the scrap pieces of paper to Harry.

"It's a little untidy - he had to scribble it down there and then."

_Remus John Lupin; Half-Blood; b. March 10 1960, Cardiff; Sol in Pisces... _

"It's the same on the Census," she said, chewing her lip. "But how can it if he... "

Harry nodded slowly. "So you want to track him down?"

"Why not?" said Hermione, shrugging. "Right after exams, no?"

Harry chuckled despite himself. "If more qualified wizards in the Ministry don't first."

Hermione pursed her lips. "I don't think they will," she said, flopping back into her own armchair. "Don't you read the papers? People are so dismissive of werewolves... probably because they're afraid of getting bitten."

"Like we should be."

Hermione huffed. "We can send him an owl, Harry. Ask him about what happened after they left school."

"And so can the Ministry," groaned Harry. "I get why you're so fixated on this, what with Ron, I guess... but why tell me now?"

"Because nothing is adding up, Harry!" she said, quite loudly. "_Especially _tonight. Don't you think Pringle's story is a little weird?"

"Pringle _is _weird."

Hermione ignored him. "How could he tell the colours of this 'pupil's' robe lining while it was too dark to see their face at the same time? And why did it set off every bell in the School?"

"Because he's lying, obviously," said Harry, scoffing. "He's probably trying to pin it on one of the Weasley twins..."

Hermione shook her head sadly. "Seriously, this isn't good. I don't think we're safe... I don't think _you're _safe."

Harry shot her a sceptical look.

"Really, Harry," she urged him, slamming her hands on the table. "This is serious. Ignatius was Ron's uncle, but he was also in the Chambers with your grandfather. _They _were friends too, and they worked towards the same things that your parents did. Wizards care about connections, Harry. If Pettigrew killed Ron's uncle - and in the way he did - who's to say he can't get a student to do the same to someone here?"

_This is crazy._

_"Is it though, idiot?" _breathed his wand. _"They're always saying 'last Potter' this, 'last Potter' that. _

_"What if he's trying to finish the job?"_

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Hey there, guys! Thanks for reading - quite a lot of non-action in this chapter, but the next one should have enough going on to offset that. As always, the reviews are much appreciated. Next update might be fairly soon, but don't quote me on that ;) 'Til next time!


	17. Miriam Takes The Helm

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Harry fulfils a promise, Hermione pulls some strings, and Sir Albus has some words.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen - Miriam Takes The Helm**

_Dear Crissy,_

_This marks the thirty-seventh time I've tried to write this damned letter. (Yes, I counted. We get a lot of down time, as you might imagine. Even taught him how to use Royal Mail - fancy that!)_

_Hope you're keeping well. You're eating right, aren't you? I remember how you had that situation over Christmas. Did the "roots" help?_

_Sorry if it's overbearing - we (yes, we) think about you every day. We've been keeping up with your papers, and while they don't seem to get it, we do. We might pop round at some point, just to make sure that you're all set should there be any surprises._

_How's little Diddums? I've missed pinching his chubby cheeks - our little tadpole has had to bear the brunt of it, sadly!_

_Oh, Crissy... I'm sorry for the splotches, but I can't stop myself from tearing up. _

_We're looking to go away for a while. Longer than usual, and I don't know what will happen when we're out there. Our crowd - well, you know things have always been a little crazy - they're going through a rough patch. People need our help, and I can't just sit and do nothing, because whatever happens in the end will happen to all of us, you know?_

_We've had to leave our little tadpole with a friend. We'll see him often - should be back every other week or so, but I get the feeling that I'm letting him down. Even if this really is all for his sake._

_Am I just convincing myself of that?_

_I love you, Crissy. I love you so, so much and I've been such a shitty sister at times that I shouldn't be asking this, but you've always been there and listened and cared and everything. Please, I'm begging you. If anything happens to us, would you look after our little tadpole? It's such a big ask, but you're just the best, and I want him to know that his family loves him._

_I totally understand if it's a no. But it would mean the world to both of us._

_Loving you lots,_

_Petal_

_P.S. I know it's late, but we got the birthday boy a little something. Mine says keep a cold pitcher nearby. It's FIERY._

* * *

_"The last one..."_

_The one where I'll need you the most._

_"Where we'll need _each other, _you mean."_

The first-year Sorcery practical was the final exam of the term, and Harry was waiting with bated breath for his turn to sit the test.

The other exams were somewhat underwhelming, at least when held to the standard of their hype. Harry wouldn't dare claim that they were all easy - especially after the nail-biting struggle of getting his Boon of Balance to hold during the Theurgy practical. At least the hole below the tightrope was just an illusion.

"A test of faith," was Professor Veness' remark. He had passed with his life, Harry supposed.

Artificing, for all of Lisa Turpin's scaremongering, was pretty straightforward: they were given seven hours to draft and apply the enchantments on a basic Phoenix Pipe for use in cold terrain. Of course Hermione's would include an optional block with warning tones for excessive playing (which could occasionally result in burning one's lips), but Harry's was perfectly functional, and so he thought he did just fine.

Their Cardinals test was _fun, _simply put, because writing an essay on _Observation versus revelation mysticism _was Harry's idea of a creative writing exercise. Both approaches were demonstrably right and wrong in equal measure, though theoreticians on both sides argued that theirs claimed the upper hand in uncovering the "highest" of the Higher Mysteries. It really all came down to who had the most entertaining explanation for owl being witch's best friend.

Harry would leave that particular debate for his N.E.W.T paper.

The rest of them were uneventful. Grubby-Plank assigned a Herbology-only practical for Vitalemy (which Neville was most thankful for) Snape set them the Forgetfulness Potion and apart from Ron handing his paper in a half-hour early, Latin was quite forgettable too.

And so it was that a quietly confident Harry waited his turn, tracing wand motions with a finger in the draughty corridor of the Sorcery Wing.

Quietly confident, right up until Neville's appearance from around the corner. He waddled down the corridor, open-mouthed and glassy-eyed with his wand still in hand.

"Neville? Everything go okay?"

Neville stopped in his tracks, turned to Harry and shrugged.

"I don't know. I just... don't know." He sat next to Harry, his eyes still unfocused as he faced the wall. "You're next, aren't you?"

Harry nodded, giving the corridor an anxious glance.

"Yeah," he said, patting Neville on the back as he rose to his feet. "I'm sure you did well."

Neville didn't answer back. Taking a deep breath, Harry marched towards the exam room, steeling himself for whatever nightmare had just befallen his friend. His pace hastened as he reached the bend, as did his heartbeat.

_"Keep your cool, idiot."_

_I should be saying the same to you. _

The door was wide open, as if blasted aside by the blinding column of morning sunlight escaping the classroom. Harry shielded his eyes as he crossed the threshold, and when he removed his palm, he did a double take.

"S- ... Professor Dumbledore. Um, g-good morning!"

_Neville. No wonder. _

The Headmaster, for all his surprise appearances, looked positively natural sitting at the centre of the room, behind a small wooden desk. A thin black crate lay beside it.

"And a very good morning to you, Mr Potter," he replied, inclining his head. "Would you like to take a seat?"

Harry nodded, trying to process the sight before him as he occupied the chair in front of the desk. It was true that Dumbledore taught them Sorcery - once every other week - but he hadn't given a single practical throughout the entire year. Where in the world was Miss Pleasant?

"You are ready, then?" asked Dumbledore, beaming. "Wand polished, breakfast eaten? Or would you be partial to a glass of lemon cordial before we start?"

Harry had to stop himself from making a face. "I'm all right, Professor. Raring to go and that."

Dumbledore, still smiling, arched an eyebrow as he regarded Harry for a moment.

"Colour me surprised, Harry, that you haven't questioned my presence."

_"He's one to talk- "_

_Shut it. _

Dumbledore chuckled. "Your companion is in top form, I see!" Upon meeting Harry's frown, the elderly wizard winked. "Remember that Wandsong is a condition of the psyche as much as it is of magic. Wizards with extensive experience in the arts of the mind sometimes encounter the most potent of stray thoughts without intent to pry, and the thoughts between a Wandsinger and her focus are much like those of a Muggle... power plant, is it?"

Harry let out a nervous giggle. "Ah, right."

_Explains Snape, then. _Harry really wasn't sure how he felt about that particular Professor being able to read his mind. Or Dumbledore for that matter.

_"I wonder if he knows about Tracey?"_

_I'm sure he does, now..._

"I wouldn't worry, Harry - it's the most obscure of skills known to wizardkind."

"Oh. Sure, Professor."

Dumbledore clapped his hands. "Shall we begin?"

"No time like the present," said Harry, drawing his wand.

Dumbledore laughed again. "Indeed. Well then - which would you prefer first? Transfiguration or Charms?"

Always one to save his favourites for last, Harry chose Charms. Dumbledore removed a metal tray and seven waxen balls from the crate, setting them down on the desk with military precision.

"Your tasks, Harry, are thus: ignite, levitate and extinguish as many of these candles as possible. Extra marks will be allocated if you can successfully cast a spell on more than one object. Simultaneously, of course."

Harry's ears perked up at that.

_Are you up for that? _he asked his wand, which scoffed.

_"The question is, idiot, are you?"_

_Let's see, shall we? "Incendio!"_

In one sweeping bulbous motion, Harry set all of the candles alight; the one on the far right flickered for a while, but it was soon aflame in full force.

_Fluttery, flittery, high in the sky_

_Dance, you wizlets! Dance and fly by!_

_"Wingardium Leviosa!" _Harry added weight to his wand, giving it a laboured swish. As he slowly drew his wand for the 'flick', the fireballs rose in tandem. Once they were a foot higher than the tray, he drew circles in the air as the candles plodded along like underwater marionettes.

"Very good," muttered Dumbledore. Harry was curious to see his expression, but he only had eyes for the candles at the moment. "If you could extinguish them, please?"

He certainly could, but how? He knew the counter to the Fire-Making Charm well, but why not score two goals with one Quaffle, as Ron would say?

_But I might lose marks for cheating..._

_"For shame, idiot! It's hardly cheating if you're using me!"_

Harry snorted._ True._

_"Finite Incantatem." _In one fell swoop, the candles fell to the tray, each extinguished without a hint of smoke.

Dumbledore gazed at the tray. "My, how splendid - a second-year spell. I must ask, Harry: how ever do you find the time?"

Harry laughed. "We all have to make sacrifices, Professor."

The Headmaster's eyes hardened somewhat.

"Sleep, sir," clarified Harry.

Dumbledore tutted to himself, eyes twinkling once more. "Oh, yes. You would do well not to neglect it, though. Rest is a crucial ingredient to a wizard's growth.

"Now," he said, rubbing his hands, "for the Transfiguration portion."

With a snap of his fingers, the tray and its contents were replaced by a single knobbly twig around the size of Harry's wand. The crate on the floor buckled a little.

"Would you like to take a break, Harry?" asked Dumbledore. "Gather your thoughts and the like?"

Harry eagerly shook his head, so Dumbledore proceeded to brief him. He was asked to smooth and straighten the twig as much as possible before Transforming it into cotton, limestone and finally glass before returning it to its original form.

_"Reparifarge," _he muttered with a confident flourish, and the glass stick before them writhed and cracked into place, its former texture not far behind.

Dumbledore wore an impish grin. "And for the final test... free Transformation."

This was his chance to make a lasting impression. Harry licked his lips as he tightened his grip.

_Here we go, Wand._

_"Don't I get a name?"_

_If I get an O, we'll talk._

Harry set the wand into motion, rattling off the gestures he would rehearse during those painfully brief intermissions between Duelling and Mr Shacklebolt's lessons. They ran like clockwork; the twig immediately rippled and darkened as hundreds of identical ridges etched themselves into its surface. With a final trio of twirls, the metal bar thickened and shortened until it resembled a Galleon, both in shape and size.

They were quiet for a good while as Dumbledore inspected his work.

"Goodness gracious," he said, turning it over in his hands. "A leaden coin. It's been a while."

Harry scratched his head. "I haven't been able to decorate it so far, but... "

Dumbledore looked him in the eye. "Your father would be proud, Harry. Do you mind me asking- "

"Where I learned it?" Harry only gave himself a light mental kick for interrupting the Headmaster. "Trade secret, Professor."

Which it was. The Grimoire (or more specifically, Hedra-from-the-pit, the Lead Coin's original smith) hadn't threatened him with death, but he wasn't taking any chances. The translation of her notes was passionate enough:

_Shrouded in our cloth of True Love, I take the precepts of our kin and make them flesh:_

_All comes from earth, and earth will claim all._

_Fortune is futile_

_For all heed Death's call._

* * *

"So the Law of Contagiousness is- "

"No, no, _no_! It's the Law of Sympathy. _Contagion _is for Theurgy!"

"Actually, you're both wrong! The Laws apply to everything and nothing. Have you people even _heard _of Waffling?"

Why people bothered swapping answers after exams was beyond Harry. It was a hot topic - if not _the _topic - among the first-years en masse, so he quickly became involved by association.

"Just one more, Harry," said Neville during lunch one day, his hands glued together as if in prayer. "Astra - they're compound binary, right?"

"Context," said Harry, stifling a yawn. "In Bright Theory, I don't think so - it's often ternary. But no one really listens to that. For the test? Yeah, you're right."

"_Hah!"_ shrieked Neville, levelling an accusatory finger at a gob smacked Seamus. "I _told _you!"

Seamus looked to Harry for help, but he could only shrug in response.

"It's just the truth," he said. "I don't write the papers."

"Did I just hear someone say Bright Theory?"

Harry looked up to meet Hermione's amused expression, just before she dropped a stack of old books on the table.

"Interesting palate you've got," he said, arching an eyebrow.

Hermione snorted. "Silly, these are for our 'project'."

"Oh?"

"More on that later," she said, placing a finger over her lips.

Neville winked at Harry.

"Piss off," he muttered at the blond-haired wizard, who sniggered alongside Seamus.

"So, Bright Theory?" she said, eyes wide. "Working on your Guild treatise already?"

"Hardly," Harry half-laughed. "Not if I want a shot in my Dad's one. It was after something Cedric said during the Friendlies. I just wanted to know what makes something Dark and..."

Hermione hummed. "It's mad, isn't it?"

"Barking. Well," he added, cocking his head to the side, "it's kind of poetic, really. A foil to the Dark Arts in every way."

"It's real, what you're talking about," said Neville. Both of them looked at him.

"Bright Theory, you said - my Granddad was well into it," he said, lumping a spoonful of jam into his rice pudding. "Proper studied it, says my Nan. Both of them did, with my Uncle Algie and everything. They say it's why my Dad was so good on the job."

"It makes sense," mumbled Harry, stroking his chin. "With his being an Auror and all."

"Which reminds me," said Neville, clapping Harry on the back. "You owe me at least three more rounds!"

Harry cursed, reeling from the impact. "What kind of train of thought was that?"

Neville chuckled. "Apparently our dads used to duel each other all the time."

"Wow - they were mates, eh?" Neville nodded at him. "So I'm bound by like... family honour or something, then?"

Neville shrugged. "I guess."

Hermione grunted, rolling her eyes.

"I swear, Hermione," said Harry quickly, "I'm all yours after supper."

Neville opened his mouth, but apparently thought better of it under Hermione's challenging stare.

* * *

_"Expelliarmus!" _cried Harry, claiming Neville's wand for the third time that afternoon.

It wasn't a hollow victory as such. After his experience during the Friendlies, Harry resolved to always give of his best - regardless of the opponent - but he suspected that Neville lost much of his enthusiasm after the first bout.

"Parrying Charm, Nev," he said, striding down the platform to hand over his friend's wand. "It's much better than Dancing."

Neville, who looked rather put out at first, cracked a smile. "Fair play. Guess you're the rich one this time, eh?"

Taking a moment to consider the terms of their bet, Harry's eyes shot open as the figure hit him.

"Blimey! Can't sniff at thirty Galleons."

Neville scoffed. "I'm sure Draco would."

Harry agreed; all the way through exam season, Draco made a point of bragging about his father's promise to buy him a Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One if he got more than thre_e E_s. Given the fact that more than a few Hogwarts parents could afford the luxury anyway, he made a concerted effort to broadcast the message in the proximity of the small population of Muggle-borns whenever they crossed paths.

"Funny that," said Harry, pensive. "He dropped Duelling pretty quickly after we started hearing about that broom."

Neville dismissed him with a hand-wave. "Draco flip-flops like a beached Hippocamp. Give him a couple months and he'll be a regular at the Club again."

"Oi! Harry!"

Harry and Neville looked to their right to see Cedric walking towards them, Bones trudging closely behind him.

Harry groaned under his breath. "Must be about next year."

"I do _not _envy you, mate," said Neville from the side of his mouth. Despite the situation, Harry appreciated the sentiment for more reasons than one.

Cedric grinned. "Didn't want to bother you two earlier. Nice form by the way, Longbottom," he added, nodding at Neville. Bones huffed.

"I'm guessing you want to start practising right away?" asked Harry, ignoring the heavy sensation in his stomach.

"I was thinking we could give it a go over the summer," said Cedric, patting Bones on the head. "Like once or twice a week, maybe? My Dad can book us one of the platforms at Stonehenge if you're game. Susan is - aren't you?"

Bones, still under Cedric's hand, was seething. Harry stole a glance at Neville, who ran a hand through his hair as he averted his gaze.

Harry's wand giggled from his side. "_Looks like it's just you and me, idiot." _

_Lovely._

"I'm going to be busy with moving and stuff," said Harry, looking anywhere but ahead, "but er... we'll see?"

Cedric pumped his hand. "Wicked. I'll send you an owl, then!"

And with that, he skipped away, leaving Bones behind.

Harry was sure that if he turned to his left, Neville would no longer be there, either.

_Might as well get this over with._

"Um, Bones," said Harry, clearing his throat. Bones gave him a sharp nod. "Quick word?"

Bones simply shrugged, so Harry pressed forward.

"Look - I know you don't like me or whatever, but we're pretty much stuck with each other now."

Bones crossed her arms with a resigned sigh. "Seems that way."

"Right," said Harry, leaning back on the platform's edge. "Probably that bloody "Chief's" idea, whoever he is... anyway, I'm just looking to do well. I'm not a Dark wizard, honest."

Bones arched an eyebrow, but remained silent.

Harry huffed. "I'm not! Seriously. Sure, I'm good with a Hex or two - " Bones sneered at that, " - but not that much better than you, to be fair."

She glared at him, but Harry stared her down.

"Why are you so eager to make a monster out of me?" he asked, cringing at how whiny he must have sounded.

It took more than a few moments, but Bones finally broke her silence.

"You aren't _that _special, Potter," she said with a half-hearted laugh as she sat beside him. Harry frowned.

"People use those spells all the time," she continued, looking at her feet, "but when they're naturals, they're known to be just as cosy with Curses."

"But I didn't know- "

"And that's exactly why," she said, squaring her jaw even more if it were possible. "You just waltz into school after knowing about magic for what, a couple of months? And you've got the best Pounder in the class? It was fishy, Potter. Really fishy. Then there was the thing with Longbottom's Potion and your hand, and... "

Harry snorted. "I still can't believe that one. Left-handers aren't that rare."

"But they are dangerous," said Bones, staring at him. "You've obviously never heard of the Left Hand Path, though, so I guess you're all right. Maybe."

_Left Hand Path? _That was one for the Library.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," muttered Harry. "Would you mind talking to Smith for us, then?"

* * *

The year's end was imminent. House Points were frozen, classes were little more than refreshers and half of the School was lamenting Hogwarts' ousting from the Top Four in Merlin League Quidditch. True to Toothill's aspirations, the Duelling Squad took the Mythril Cup, but Harry's dorm mates (namely Ron and Seamus) showed little interest if any.

"It's not that we don't care, pal," Seamus argued one night as they watched the end-of-season highlights on Neville's Wireless.

"Yeah, 'cause we do," said Ron. "We're just trying not to get attached. You know, in case you blow up or something."

The Squad was hardly short of supporters, though. As the retiring Captain, Bobby Jordan was allegedly thrown a lavish party in an old lecture hall, which in Cedric's words saw "all the big names from the older years". There was also the rumour that Jordan himself was notably absent from the event, as was Vice Captain Tonks, but Harry didn't know what to make of that.

Far more pressing were his Wandsong tutorials, which hadn't slowed down at all. By the second week of June, Harry could discriminate between the traces of all three spelled balls, and he was sure that one was under the Colour-Change Charm, but whether it was a genuine improvement or just his growing familiarity with the objects was anyone's guess. Anyone but Mr Shacklebolt's, at least.

"You're getting there," he said at the end of their last session for the year. "I can't put my finger on it - feel free to call me crazy. But give it some time. Maybe give York a visit during the summer."

If entering Sablestaff Court was remotely similar to his first experience in Diagon Alley, Harry was sorely tempted to go when it was dark and quiet.

Those same tutorials also had the adverse effect of eating into time that he was supposed to spend researching with Hermione, much to her annoyance. With so much free time, Harry spent a good deal of it catching up on sleep, especially after meeting with Shacklebolt. On the Monday before the Leaving Feast, however, Hermione would not take no for an answer.

"You're in luck today," she said in the Library that evening, sliding a stack of scrolls and folders towards him. "These are- "

"Not from the Library." Harry frowned. "Where did you get them?"

The ends of Hermione's mouth twitched. "How did you know_ that, _Potter?"

"I've seen this one before," he said, pointing at the yellowing _Progress Reviews 1967 - 84 _folder. "I've had quite a few detentions with McGonagall - that's the same ink stain on the front."

Hermione grinned. "Trust you. It was on her desk when I asked her."

"You asked her for these?" said Harry, eyes wide. "And she said _yes? _How'd you manage that one?"

Hermione shuffled in her seat. "I told the truth."

Harry arched an eyebrow.

"I did," she stage-whispered. "As soon as the words left my mouth, she practically threw them at me. It was all rather emotional."

_"I think she's lying, idiot."_

_You think? _Harry was enjoying this far too much.

"Oh fine," she huffed, suddenly unsure of where to place her hands. "It _was _the truth, just the way I worded it... might have said that I was looking for records of your dad and his friends to find out what everyday life was like... and stuff."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Wasn't hard. McGonagall got emotional, though?"

"Can we not?" said Hermione, still wringing her hands. "I feel horrible about it."

They set to work right away, trawling through heaps of old student records in search of Pettigrew and Lupin. Other than a few scribbled lines about extra-curricular activities, however, they found little of note.

"This Lupin bloke," murmured Harry as he skimmed through a list of O.W.L records. "He was pretty good at Abjuration - got an _O, _in fact. It's a little ironic, don't you think?"

"Not really," said Hermione, eyes glued to her own folder. "If he really is a werewolf, then he'd likely know best on how to repel Dark creatures."

Harry tilted his head in acknowledgement, catching an odd title from the corner of his eye. He grabbed the brown leather cover to his far left, _DEMERITS _emblazoned across the spine in gold lettering.

Hermione hummed. "I was wondering why she gave me that - Lupin was pretty well-behaved, for one. He was a Prefect, you know."

"Yes, you've told me a number of times," replied Harry, turning to the front page. "I don't think she had either of _them _in mind, though."

Hermione frowned. "What- "

Scribbling down _James Charlus Potter _in the blank space next to "Scry Archive", Harry blinked as the book jerked into motion. The pages flipped over to the index section, of which the name "Potter, James C" had been designated an impressive amount of real estate.

"Like father like son?" said Hermione, her smug smile returning with a vengeance.

Harry sniffed at her. "I've got nothing on this. Let's look at page seventy-two... Potter assigned detention for - no _way."_

Hermione looked at him, brow furrowed.

Harry tried his best to fight down a laugh. "S-snape given detention for streaking; claims Potter Vanished his robes. _Prior Incantato _confirms."

"Oh my. It's a wonder that he doesn't hate you."

_Hardly. He hates everyone._

"Suppose we could give Pettigrew a go," said Harry, "though I don't think we'll find anything useful."

As he flipped back to the front page, Harry was relieved to find the "Scry Archive" field as blank as it had been earlier.

_Peter Pettigrew. _

The index was far shorter the second time around, though the mystery wizard's crimes were also far tamer in comparison to his father's history - until Harry turned to page three-eighty-four:

_17th December 1977 - Pettigrew caught running from the kitchens at four in the morning while stuffing a blank piece of parchment under his robes (confiscated and archived by AJP). _

"Well. Shite."

"Harry!" hissed Hermione. "We're in a _library._"

"Hermione, you need to see this."

He passed the journal to her, pointing at the entry. "AJP... now who do you think that might be?"

"A J... Oh." She stared open-mouthed at the initials. "Pringle. This _has_ to be Pringle. Mrs Weasley told us over Christmas that he's been at Hogwarts since before she went here."

He wasn't sure where it came from, or if it had always been there, but at that moment, Harry's curiosity was well and truly piqued.

He gave her a firm nod. "It's a long shot, but there has to be something to that piece of parchment... we're going to need help for this one."

* * *

"Certainly not."

"Absolutely not!"

"_Unequivocally _not!"

"INDUBITABLY- "

"Okay, _okay_!" said Hermione, staring red-faced at Fred and George Weasley as the Common Room drew to a standstill.

_"Masters of the stage," _murmured Harry's wand. _"Take cues, idiot."_

Harry grunted. "We'll pay you."

Fred cackled. "You want to hire us? _Us,_ Harry?"

"Don't take offence," said George, crossing his arms. "We do know your net worth, Baron-to-be."

"Yeah," said Fred, nodding. "We collect the _Diagon Journal, _if you didn't know."

"You do?" asked Hermione, looking genuinely surprised. "It's nigh indecipherable."

"I never said we read it," said Fred, chuckling. "Point is: we know you're filthy rich, friend of ickle Ronniekins. But for a job like that, we require something dearer than gold... wealth that not even our dear parents can provi- "

"Fifteen Galleons," said Harry, holding up his Sickle Bag. "Take it or leave it."

The twins shared a look before turning back to him.

"Deal."

Harry laid out fifteen of the large golden coins on a nearby window-sill, leaving George to scoop them up with ill-repressed glee.

"Now remember," Harry said to Fred, finger extended, "it's a blank piece of parchment in the Enchanted Objects cab- "

Fred waved him off. "Please, Harry. We know that room better than our own backsides. Leave it all to us! Ready, brother?"

George jingled his own drawstring pouch. "Always!"

And with that, they scarpered towards the porthole, leaving a baffled contingent of Gryffindors in their wake.

Percy sighed from his armchair, tome in hand. "Should we fear a Slytherin reprisal?"

"Harry!" said Hermione, open-mouthed. "That's a lot of money!"

Harry shrugged. "I've hardly spent my pocket money this year. Besides, I made double that last week."

* * *

The Conference Room.

It was never officially designated as such, but Albus had a fondness for naming things, and due to its most common function, the Conference Room it was. The Governors, however, were decidedly _not _fond of said side chamber's cramped conditions, much preferring to hold meetings in the lakeside Small Hall instead.

That being said, an uncomfortable Lucius Malfoy was an advantage which the staff could not afford to ignore.

"As agreed," said Chairwoman Chang, passing a scroll and quill along the table, "the term-time opening hours to the School Library shall be extended for visiting scholars who purchase the Premium Membership badge, while alumni shall enjoy a half-price concession."

"Bloody well time, too," muttered Minerva from Albus' right. "Especially those damned Merlinians, the glorified thieves that they are..."

Filius squinted at her, making a strange noise that sounded halfway between a squeak and a growl.

"I wouldn't take it personally, my boy," whispered Elphias, lightly elbowing the Charms Master.

Chairwoman Chang rapped her wand over the table.

"I'll give Governor Malfoy the floor to discuss the next item on the agenda. If that's all right, Lucius?"

Malfoy flashed a toothy smile as he rose from his seat. "Certainly! Thank you, Miriam."

As his gaze wandered across the room, Albus caught the eye of Donald Urquhart. The burly wizard looked distinctly unimpressed, mouthing something which - if Albus' lip reading skills were as sharp as he believed - looked like "typical".

_Indeed. _It appeared that if Madam Chang was to make a firm decision on the topic, it would be in the moment.

Malfoy gave a slight bow. "Fellow Governors, valued staff - I'm quite sure that you have all been brought up to speed on the _Lightning Rods _project by now. It is no secret that members of the Board have been concerned about the attainment of our least fortunate students for some time..."

Madams Chang and Edgecombe shared a brief quizzical look.

"... and now, after several years of groundbreaking Ministry-aided research, experts believe that they have discovered a solution. Studies have shown that specialist teaching for Muggle-born and -raised pupils in East Asia yielded, on average, an Augo Profile increase of half a wave. At that threshold, the difference in aptitude between established and first-generation witches is practically negligible.

"As the premier school for magical arts in the country, we are obligated to lead by example - set precedents - to move our nation forward on the global stage. Governors Smith and I presented our proposal to you just after Easter, and while we understand that committing to a curriculum shift right this moment would be rather hasty, time is of the essence.

"The floor is open to questions."

Minerva's hand shot up, and Malfoy's smile faltered.

"Professor McGonagall."

She sat up straight. "Thank you, Mr Malfoy. In regards to your concerns, I felt it prudent to mention that of the seven Muggle-born pupils in the first year cohort, four were placed at..." she unfurled a scroll before her, "... ah. Out of eighty: thirtieth, eighteenth, seventh and - yes - first in their end of year examinations."

"First?" grunted Smith, ruddy chins rumbling as his head snapped towards her. "Who was first?"

Minerva smiled at Albus. "Hermione Jean Granger. A Gryffindor, and an Enchanting prodigy if I ever saw one."

"That she is!" piped young Mr Watts at Minerva's side.

"The others, a Kevin Entwhistle, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Sally-Anne Perks each scored a fifty or higher on the Augo Profile, a more than satisfactory level of wisdom for our entry criteria, and achieved _A_s or higher in all subjects sat."

"Granger," purred Malfoy, stroking his chin. "The name is familiar... she isn't boarding with the Weasley family, by any chance?"

Elphias sighed. "O, Woden..."

"Well that just explains it all, doesn't it?" said Donald with a huff. "Their blood must have just rubbed _right_ _off_ on her, eh?"

"Now Donald," said Smith, fixing the bald wizard with a reproachful stare, "you cannot simply ignore the fact that the girl is living with a Ministry Head." He turned to Minerva. "When was the girl released from custody?"

The room fell deathly silent. It was an uncomfortable topic to broach in general, though Albus understood the pain that it must have brought Minerva.

She exhaled. "Three weeks after her... "rescue". I delivered her letter to the Weasley residence personally."

A round of nervous shuffles and coughs followed. Smith nodded his head from side to side in thought.

"Nearly a year, then," he said softly. "She must have benefited from that. Arthur Weasley's quite the artificer, from what I've heard."

"That he is," said Albus, intertwining his fingers as he smiled at Smith. "Though to suggest that Miss Granger's aptitude, regardless of the fact that she was tested before ever meeting the Weasley family is solely Arthur's doing? I believe he would forgive me for denying him such credit."

Smith's cheeks were soon coloured by the muffled laughs from either end of the conference table. Before he could continue, though, Albus was struck by a high-pitched whirring noise between the ears.

_A summons, it would seem._

"My most profuse apologies," he said, adjusting his robes as he stood up, "but I must make an express journey to the water closet. Please continue amongst yourselves."

With a bow (and a wink to an incredulous Smith) Albus promptly made his exit. As soon as he reached his quarters, he pressed his wand to the ruby resting on his ring finger.

It shimmered. _"Monarch to Bishop," _came a reedy voice, _"I hear the song. Have you settled?"_

"Roosted," replied Albus, sheathing his wand and stroking Fawkes over the head as he headed towards his desk.

_"Noted and mutual. It's pandemonium down here, Albus."_

Albus frowned. "Are you well, Kingsley?"

_"I'm fine," _he replied._ "No one's hurt - we've just received a message."_

"From?"

_"Prewett's murderer. It was standard fare until..."_

"Kingsley?"

The ring shimmered again. _"-tail. He mentioned Wormtail."_

Albus' heart plummeted.

"I shall make my way in due course. Barty will expect me, in any case..."

* * *

**interlude two - rattling the cage  
**

There was little purpose for a wizard in London. Any self-respecting wizard, at least.

The same went septuple for Knockturn Alley, but he was fast running out of options.

_Damn those rags._

He should have been impervious to them. Invisible, even. Considering how tight-fisted both Hogwarts and the Ministry could be, the media shouldn't have caught a sniff of his name, let alone his background.

_How foolish. They have _no_ idea what they have done!_

He clutched at his ribs, gritting his teeth as he cut across a pair of goblins pulling a cart of elves (just caught, judging by their mutinous stares). He suppressed a moan as he leaned against the cobbled wall of _Crups for Coin,_ sliding into the bench beside him.

The Potion was working, but it wasn't a painkiller. He usually abstained from them in fear of compromising its potency, but the journey south had taken its toll, apparently.

He would need rest, just for tonight. Then he could hobble to Epping Forest in the morning, or something.

Maybe it was hysteria from the pain, but the Ministry didn't feel safe any more. _York _wasn't safe any more, especially after today. It had been ideal at one point; given the thousands of wizards milling about the Court's every corner, the spotlight-shy were spoiled for choice.

That was until Runcorn from Investigations passed them in the elevator, hours after Healer Spleen was released.

"Might want to skip town, Croaker," the bastard said to Algie that day. "We've read the files - we know you all go _way _back."

Algie told him not to worry - that Runcorn was bitter after Crouch passed the case to the Auror Office, that he knew sod all about the Order of the Phoenix - and it had worked for a while.

But the murderer sent them a message today, and Peter (bless his heart) would never have the balls to own up to stealing the last Butterbeer, let alone a double homicide.

The murderer dubbing themselves as "Wormtail" was enough reason to cause alarm, though. Few outside the Order knew that name, which meant that they were a rogue agent, worked for Grindelwald or both. Furthermore, only an Order member would have a hope in Hades of Scrying him down while he slept deep within the bowels of the Ministry.

That was the only plausible explanation for his recent stalker, of which he definitely had one. Knockturn Alley's odour was stronger than Hippogriff dung on a good day but, much to his chagrin, Remus Lupin had a _very _good sense of smell.

"_Shite. _You got a light, love?"

Startled by the husky voice, Remus leaped back as he aimed his wand at the source: a dark-haired, wide-eyed witch with a cigarette hanging limply from her lips. She couldn't have been more than seventeen.

"Calm down, mate!" she said, shuffling away as she smoothed her yellow dress robe (of which there was little) over her legs.

Remus drew a ragged breath, tugging the hood of his cloak on impulse as he replaced his wand.

"I can't see your face if that's what you're worried about," said the witch, eyeing the space where Remus had sat until a moment ago.

He sat back down with a wince, clutching at his sides with one hand as he rummaged through a pocket with the other... he had to have a few Crab-flints lying spare.

"Aren't you too young for that?" he rasped through gritted teeth as he searched to no avail.

The witch snorted.

"You should be at home," he said, leaning back and slipping a hand into his other pocket. "What are you doing out at this time on a street like this?"

"Are you kidding me?" she said, upper lip quirked. "Knockturn Alley's the _best _night out! How old are you?"

Remus shook his head, digging out a coiled green-and-silver pipe and handing it over.

"Sorry," he said, "it's all that I have."

She stared down at the pipe, blinking twice.

"Barmy Barons... is this a _Dragonwhistle_? They don't even- "

"I'm aware," he said gruffly as he stretched his arm. "Hold onto it. Where might I get a room around here?"

She pressed a finger to her cheek. "Um... hm. Beats me."

Remus coughed out a laugh. "Thanks." He tried standing up to leave, but his legs were locked. Heaving himself forward only resulted in his face hitting the grimy, urine-soaked floor with a _thud._

The yellow-robed witch burst into a fit of giggles.

"Merlin," she hiccoughed, crouching down beside him. "For a fella with a wand, you're pretty helpless, aren't you?"

Remus felt a pair of tiny arms snake themselves around his sides. With a small amount of effort, he was back on his feet in a matter of seconds.

"Thank you," he mumbled, tugging at the rim of his hood. "Pain can make me irritable. I'm... ah, sorry."

The witch gave him an impish grin. "And I'm Lydia. Come on, then - let's find you somewhere to kip!"

While Lydia draped one of his arms across her shoulders, Remus fumbled for his wand.

_"Allevo," _he intoned, prodding his chest. Lydia gasped.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Is that okay for you?"

She tutted. "Stop apologising! And yes, thanks for lightening the load, there." She hefted his arm. "No spells for pain relief, then?"

He grunted again, straining to drag his heels as they turned the corner.

"You can," he said, panting. "It's - _ah..._ complicated."

Thankfully, Lydia didn't pry. Squinting into the dark passageway, Remus took another whiff of the air: thanks to his Snout, the scene burst alive with hue and value. It was more than bright enough to see the end of the passage now, and with another blink, Remus spotted a sign saying _The Nag and Pumpkin Tavern _from a few yards around the corner.

He shook himself back to his senses, lest he triggered a premature Change in his state. Without the moon at its fullest and the Potion working its magic, he'd keep his wits for certain, but being stuck in transition meant incalculable pain.

"All right there?" asked Lydia.

"I... déjà vu," he lied, blinking again. "Gave me the shivers. I know where we are now - make a left at the end, okay?"

Lydia chuckled to herself, but complied all the same. Just as she made to wheel him around the corner, however, a piercing wail drilled its way into Remus' skull, bringing him to his knees immediately. He screamed.

"What the- " started Lydia, whirling around to locate the culprit. She squeaked soon after. Trying his best to focus through agony-narrowed slits, Remus could barely make out the frame of a cloaked figure with its wand held high.

"Localised Caterwauling Charm," rumbled a hollow, echoing voice which sounded closer than its source. "You have to admire the genius."

_How the hell did I miss... ? _There was no way. His Snout _never _missed.

"L...lydia," he growled, staggering to his feet. "Get _lost._"

She gawked at him. "You what? No- "

"Forgive the interruption," said the cloaked figure, "but it's rare to see a Crowcloak with a friend. Tell me, Lupin - what business would an Unspeakable have lurking down here?"

Remus grit his teeth. _Keep him talking._ "Sounds like you should know already."

_Need to buy time, _he thought as he started rambling of the Plight of Slumbering Sensation under his breath.

"Don't misunderstand, old friend," purred the figure, its voice as hollow as ever as it paced forward. "You're worth far more to me alive."

"Why don't you just jog on, mate?" said Lydia, stepping in front of Remus.

_What the hell is she still doing here? _There was nothing to be done; he had to finish the Plight first.

_"__... Culicarius terror sudorem... "_

The figure came yet closer, wand lazy at his side. "Stand aside, idiot girl. Your death would be a waste of a spell."

"Put your wand away, then."

The figure stopped. After a moment of silence, it shrugged and pocketed the weapon. Lydia wavered a little before moving to the side.

_"... morte in vitam." _It was done; he felt the Plight course through his nerves, laying waste to all feeling. Due to extensive practice, he would be able to walk - run, if necessary - but it would take an inordinate amount of patience. Far less than running through the pain, however.

"Where's Wormtail?" he said, louder than he had intended.

"Away," the figure replied, "but alive, rest assured."

Remus allowed himself a sneer. "So he gave you the slip."

The figure stiffened. "He was looking for me, not the other way around. Now let's stay on topic, shall we?"

Remus looked back at Lydia. She stood resolute, and he didn't have the strength to move her.

"I'll give you three chances. Where is the Shroud?"

Remus snapped his head back at the figure. "The... you want _what?_"

"The Shroud, Lupin. Don't play innocent - where did he hide it?"

_The Shroud? What in the..._

"Yes, Lupin - I know _all _about it. How you and your little friends could slither around undetected. Pringle didn't have it, but he confirmed as much."

_Wait... James' Cloak?_

"Pringle? You were at Hogwarts?" snarled Remus, clenching his fists. "What did you do?"

The figure laughed softly. "Nothing. Yet. If you hand over the Shroud, then no blood will be spilled."

Remus spluttered. "Is that what you told Prewett? Or that barman?"

"Why must you be so difficult?" The figure sighed. "I'm disappointed, Lupin. You were a rare breed."

The figure re-drew its wand in an instant.

"Lydia," he whispered. "Leave. _Now._" He already knew he was a monster: he didn't need a minor's death to justify that.

He gathered his thoughts, steeling himself to jump into whatever came next. It would be a gruelling ordeal, but he would survive, ready to face the pain come sunrise. Knowing that his concentration was far too scattered for Sorcery, he bared his teeth...

"I am sorry, Lupin," the figure said, raising its wand, "but I must have that Shroud. _Cru- _"

Remus braced himself for the (admittedly lessened) impact, wholly unprepared for what he heard next.

_"Mordeo!"_

A green jet of light surrounded by angry orange sparks carthweeled past Remus' ears. It swivelled towards the figure, dissapating with a screech as it splattered across a Shield Charm.

"You have no idea who you're playing with, witch." Finding himself outnumbered, the figure Disapparated with a _pop._

Remus turned to Lydia, who was frozen on the spot as she clutched a slender wand with a spade-like handle.

She let out a giggle. "I just saved an Unspeakable."

Remus would have shrugged if he could; no lies were told.

"I, dear Wizard, am a fucking ledge."

Remus internally winced at the curse. "Your name isn't Lydia, is it?"

The witch laughed as she shook her head. For no discernable reason, her hair shortened by several inches and, if Remus' night vision wasn't fooling him, turned more than a few shades lighter.

"Tonks," she said, sticking out a hand. "But you can call me Flounder. _Moony, _is it?"

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Hey guys, thanks for reading!

Some of you might recognise the Lead Coin from Mage: the Awakening. It's quite an inspiration for this series, though this is the first direct reference I've made to it. I've always wanted to play it, but no one's ever game _/badpun_

As always, many thanks for the feedback. Next chapter will be out within the next month - I don't plan to draw out the summer for long, so consider this a halfway point for Untitled Tome. :)


	18. Padma Plans A Trip

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE:** Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome

**SUMMARY:** Harry goes home, Hermione goes back to the drawing board, and Neville hangs out in the park.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen - Padma Plans A Trip**

"Cor... to think that a whole year's gone by, eh?"

"Actually Ron, it's only been ten months."

"You would say that."

Sniggering at his friends as he turned a leaf of _The Worldly Witch_, Harry took a moment to reflect on the events of the previous night. It all felt somewhat rushed: the Slytherins won the House Cup, Ron ate to numb the pain, and Prefect Percy pestered them to pack in advance. He heartily agreed with Ron because, as they sat on the Express bound for King's Cross, it felt like he had arrived at Hogwarts not a short while ago.

His return journey, of course, came with extra baggage.

_"Stop loitering, idiot! Back to work!"_

Harry growled out loud.

"You all right there, Harry?"

He gave Ron a sheepish smile. "Nothing - just honouring a promise. An annoying one, but..."

"Do you mind telling us?" asked Hermione.

Harry gave her a look that he hoped would convey that he did indeed mind, but neither Hermione nor Ron looked any less curious.

He sighed. "I promised my wand that I'd name it if we got an O in Sorcery."

Ron slowly leaned forward. "You promised... your wand?"

"It's a Wandsong thing," said Harry, grimacing.

"Hence the Culture book," mused Hermione. "Have you got any strong contenders?"

Harry flipped through to the Notes page, which was thoroughly littered with dark blue scribbles.

"Let's see. I've got... Boudica."

_"Too bloody."_

"Hestia."

_"Too mythic."_

"Aurora..."

_"Ugh. _Alternative_."_

_"Gilda?"_

"Far too ostentatious." Harry snorted.

Ron scrunched up his face in thought. "What's it made of?"

"Holly," said Harry, brandishing his companion with reverence. "Holly and phoenix-feather."

Hermione gasped. "Of course - gold-tipped feathers?" Harry gave her a faint nod, eyes still on his wand.

"Aha!" exclaimed Ron, causing the other two to jump. "Hollygalleon!"

_Eh?_

"Bless you," said Hermione.

Ron laughed. "No, Hollygalleon. My Uncle Bilius used to bet big on Hippogriff racing, right? So one day- "

"We don't want to hear about your uncle's questionable habits, Ron," said Hermione, rolling her eyes.

"I do," said Harry. "Go on."

Ron winked back. "So like I was saying, he comes to ours on the evening after the Fair England race, saying that he had my Dad's three hundred Galleons. He bet on Hollygalleon - that was the name of the winning mare."

Harry arched an eyebrow. Surprisingly, Hermione seemed to be considering the idea as she tapped her chin in thought.

"You can call it Holly for short," she supplied. "It's descriptive."

Harry peered down at the wand. _So what say you, Hollygalleon?_

After a short moment, a simple _"It'll do,"_ was its answer. For some reason, Harry was reminded of Ollivander's adage. If the wand chose the wizard, and this wand was satisfied by its name, then maybe it was a good fit. He'd have to read further on sorcerers who named their companions at some point.

It wasn't long before the cavalry arrived. Lisa and Padma came first, closely followed by Neville. Harry considered the compartment to have reached maximum capacity at that point, but a fashionably late Draco and company were determined to prove him wrong.

"Don't your sort usually go for a cab each?" said Ron, lip curled as Daphne Greengrass elbowed him into Hermione.

"How true," gushed Neville, who sounded like he had caught a cold. "You must be referring to the Augurey Suite. Never a gayer time on the ground, darling. Never!"

Draco, who was sandwiched between Blaise and Daphne, turned a bright shade of pink.

"That sounded awfully like my mother, Longbottom," he said.

"Your mileage may vary on that one," said Blaise to Harry, who frowned.

Blaise grinned at him. "The first time she met my grandmother, she greeted her with a string of shockingly crude Jamaican Patois."

Harry blinked, and Blaise's smile faltered. "My grandmother is from Zanzibar."

Having witnessed Draco's tendency to offend entire groups in one breath, Harry wasn't surprised. But before he could mumble his commiserations, an Every-Flavour Bean hit him between the eyes.

"Fix up Potter," said Draco, smirking at him. "Can't slip up like that on the platforms next year!"

Blaise's grin returned in full force. "Yes, we've heard! Congrats on making... what's it? Team Foxtrot?"

Harry smiled back. "That's the one. I'm all right with Bones now, though, so there's not much to worry about."

Daphne cooed. "Go _Potter_."

The compartment fell silent, all eyes falling on the curly-haired Slytherin.

"What?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

Harry tittered. "Thanks, actually - I might need it. We've got duelling practice in Stonehenge."

"Father's taking us to Bermuda for a couple of weeks," said Draco, "but I'll take you on when I get back. Who's game to watch? Daphne?"

"You know," said Blaise, stroking his chin while eyeing Harry, "Stonehenge isn't a bad idea at all. Tracey lives nearby."

Daphne and Draco shared an amused look.

Harry fixed his gaze to the floor. "Lovely."

It was almost maddening; he was all but convinced that their teasing was more than responsible for his burgeoning crush on Tracey.

"We should all go!" said Padma, beaming. "I've always wanted to visit Stonehenge."

"It's boring," said Ron, adding "But it is!" at a thin-lipped Hermione.

"It's _hallowed_," she replied. "That's more than enough reason to visit."

Daphne made a face. "Do you even believe in our gods, Granger?"

"I don't," said Hermione, looking her in the eye. "Not literally."

"And what did you get for Theurgy, if you don't mind me asking?"

"An _E_," said Hermione, squaring her shoulders.

Daphne's smirk turned sour. "You're lying."

"She isn't," came a rebuttal from Draco. "Father was talking to Snape about it when he came to visit the other day." Greengrass looked outside the window as Draco chuckled. "I heard the old Baron Smith was fuming, hearing his grandson come second to a - _hm_. You're some kind of special, Granger."

Hermione frowned, bemused. "What do you mean?"

"He means you're one of a kind," said Padma. "Really, Hermione. You're no regular Muggle-born, are you?"

Ron ducked his head; Harry was tempted to join him. To their shared astonishment, she replied with a mute nod. The remainder of the journey was similarly quiet.

As the Express pulled in to King's Cross, Harry felt his heart pounding.

Home base, he thought as the sheen of steam cleared past the window.

_"No."_

_What do you mean, no?_

The newly christened Hollygalleon groaned._ "The Crucible, idiot! Surely you haven't forgotten."_

He had, apparently. Oakwood was less than twenty minutes away by train, but his true destination lay hundreds of miles west.

"Harry?"

He looked up to meet a fidgety Hermione, the others having long left for the platform.

Harry let out a nervous giggle. "Spaced out there, eh?"

"It's only natural," she said, trailing close behind him as he hauled his trunk over the luggage rack. "You'll write, won't you?"

"Thanks to Her Royal Highness, here," he said with a grin, tapping Hedwig's cage.

Hermione nodded, fished out a large envelope from her robe pocket and handed it to Harry.

"I want you to look after them," she said, her grip still strong as Harry's fingers closed over its edge.

As she relinquished her grasp, Harry deftly eased out its contents - just enough to discover the familiar tattered edge of scrap parchment inside.

He shook his head. "Hermione, I can't. This is your kind of thing. How can I crack a code that we can't even see?"

Hermione crossed her arms. "I just feel like, well... that you're supposed to have it."

Harry knew that she didn't mean to associate him with Pettigrew (whatever he really was) but it still stung.

"One week," he said firmly. "One week and then I'm handing it back, okay? Owl or Knight Bus, I don't care."

She gave him a resigned smile. "It's a deal, then."

They stepped off of the train without another word, greeted by a round of reunions several months in the making. Harry caught a glimpse of Draco in the distance before the blond boy was engulfed by a silky silver robe. If the long haired, sharp-nosed wizard rolling his eyes to Draco's left was any indication, the shiny garment likely belonged to Draco's mother.

"You will write, Harry?"

"Of course," he said giving Hermione an earnest nod.

"Remember," she said, extending a finger, "if you get bored in that house- "

"I'll beg Sir Albus to beg the Weasleys. I swear."

Hermione exhaled, a weary smile easing into place.

"You'll find _something_ in that parchment, Harry," she said. "I'm sure of it." He wasn't certain that Hermione's faith was well-placed, but Harry smiled all the same.

"Hermione, dear? Let's get a move on!"

Whipping around to their right, they saw a huddled group of red-haired wizards near the barrier. A plump, kindly-looking witch at the front waved in their direction.

"That's me, Harry," said Hermione. She gave him a brief hug before skipping over to the Weasley family, her trunk ricketing against mosaic tiles in tow.

It was oddly relieving for him to watch as she reunited with her guardians who, for all intents and purposes, were complicit in her rapture from the Muggle world. They may not have 'retrieved' Hermione from her birth parents as Mrs Plinny once described it in a Wizarding Studies lesson, but while the Weasleys enjoyed her company, the Grangers would never see their daughter again.

Or remember that she ever existed, in fact.

But it was oddly relieving nevertheless, for Hermione was thriving from what Harry could tell. She often mentioned the projects Mr Weasley would have in store for the both of them, and all of the places that she would beg him to let her visit. Kidnapped or no, Hermione had thrown herself head-first into the world of witches.

And with all things considered, Harry loathed the maelstrom of pity and jealousy he felt in his gut as they embraced. He couldn't help but think of his own parents.

All four of them.

* * *

Professor Doge, to Harry's pleasant surprise, arrived only a couple of minutes late. After a short bout of wheezing and apologising, the pair were soon in transit. He found himself casting a wary eye over the hundreds of luminescent "M" patterns which danced across the black cab's interior.

Doge tapped him on the shoulder. "Ministry chauffeurs. It's one of the perks of keeping a Wizengamot seat, you know. When you're much older, my boy," he said with a wink.

Harry frowned at that. "But Draco's dad isn't even forty yet, and my Dad was barely in his twenties. If I don't have an older relative, then- "

Doge giggled. "You'll go grey before you're eighty with that attitude, Harry! Those were exceptional circumstances, in any case."

"How so?"

"In the case of Wizard Malfoy, or Baron Malfoy, Chief-wizard Belgarum, any variant you might fancy - he petitioned for a legacy appointment and the Upper House granted it. As for your father, Dumbledore and the other Heralds of Merlin brought forth evidence of his sacrifice for the Union, thus his posthumous title of 'Right Honourable Baron, forty-eighth Chief-wizard Dumnonia'. The other Chief Houses would rather wait than have some upstart keep either seat warm. Messes with a lot of blood, sweat and magic."

"If they're waiting for me too, it'll be ages, won't it?"

Doge hummed. "Probably. But they've got an even spread among the major parties right now... their waiting game is the biggest open secret going. The old Wizards' Council was a family of families... however dysfunctional. One might say nothing has changed."

Doge sighed to himself, and Harry wondered how such an excitable and faint-hearted old man survived in said dysfunctional environment (on top of being a teacher of all things).

_"Wizards do have alcohol, idiot."_

_I suppose. How would you know, anyway?_

_"Are you kidding me? I- ! Actually, I'm not sure..."_

The image of Doge cowering in fear as dozens of dark-robed elderly wizards launched paper planes at each other popped into being. Holly sniggered.

As their conversation drew to a close, the Wireless speakers caught Harry's attention.

**"-versary of Ottery St. Catchpole's sequestration. ... Dark activity watchdogs declared the threat levels in York and London to have reached a state of 'mortal peril' earlier today as the Ministry released what appears to be a message from the murderer of Ignatius Prewett. Authorities advise that the culprit is still at-large and implicated in several recent disturbances across the country. Deianira Lewes reports."**

The speakers belched out a barrage of noise; the clunky footsteps and frenzied chattering of a town square bounced around the cab.

**"Intrigue. Terror. Confusion. These are the colours with which today's picture of York was painted. Amidst rumours of a message sent by none other than the Honourable Wizard Prewett's murderer, the Court's Apparition Points were suspended on Monday, leading to a congested Floo Network and leaving dozens of Ministry officials stranded at Muggle safe-spots. Last night, those rumours were confirmed as Barty Crouch addressed the press alongside a shock broadcasting of the killer's so-called 'manifesto':**

_**" 'The mushroom is a resource at best - a poisonous fungus at worst. I am simply the humble Healer. Prewett, the senile gardener. His time was due.'**_

**"The message demanded that the murderer be referred to as 'Worm-tail' in reference to their movements being similar to a rat's: invasive and omnipresent. It listed confessions to several transgressions, not excluding the murder of barman Patrick Henleigh and the burning of his tavern in Utherton. Most chilling of all were its parting words, though insiders claim them to be nonsensical:**

_**" 'The fallen birds of prey will feast once more. The triptych of Hades shall be restor-' "**_

"That's enough for today, I think," said Doge, snapping his fingers as the Wireless switched off.

There was a finality in the old wizard's tone that Harry hadn't heard before, so he chose to suffer his curiosities in silence. But Hollygalleon had other ideas.

_"Hey, idiot! Have you any idea what a triptych is?"_

_You know I don't. Why would you even ask?_

_"Figures."_

Harry ignored his wand, searching out of the window to gain his bearings. That they hadn't reached the motorway yet did not bode well.

"How long from here, Professor?"

Doge looked at Harry, wide-eyed. He made a small "O" with his mouth before knocking on the cab screen.

"Malcolm, m'boy! We'll be off, now."

"Sure thing, dear Wizard," answered a muted but no less chipper voice from the other side. Before Harry could register the exchange, his seat and everything inside it seemed to fold in on itself before shooting forward in a roaring gale. It might have been a good thing that British wizards had their own laws and land, he would later think, as twisting, flipping and rolling between vehicles on the motorway had to warrant more than a ticket.

Harry resolved to take the Knight Bus in the future.

After ten or fifteen stomach-churning minutes passed by, the cab returned to its original shape and slowed to a halt in the middle of a dense woodland. The doors flew open, and Harry made his bid for freedom. Once the world stopped spinning, he took a chance at looking upward. The trees followed suit; a rough circle the size of the clearing ahead was all that remained of the clear azure sky. A couple of hundred yards ahead, an immense globular structure sat obscured by a basin of steam in the low-lying centre of the clearing.

The Grimoire mentioned nothing about a geyser.

"Godric's Hollow, Penwith," called the chauffeur. "Will that be all, dear Wizard?"

Harry glanced over at Doge, who gave the cab an airy nod. "Just the bags, Malcolm. 'Atta boy."

Leaving the chauffeur to unload Harry's things from the boot, the wispy-haired wizard replaced his fez to wipe his brow.

"Where is he?"

"Who?" asked Harry.

Doge shook his head. "New caretaker, of a sort... he must be up and about. Off we go, then!"

Thanking the chauffeur (which was an odd experience in itself), Harry wheeled his trunk forward in pursuit of Doge, absorbing everything he could about the surrounding scene. Every breath he stole carried a distinct taste: one of bark, then one of iron. One of salt, then one of charcoal... it perplexed him, for the path was so still that even the leaves beneath his boots, trampled though they were, appeared unmolested.

There was life, he was sure of that. The branches high above swayed softly from side to side, teased by fingers of rising steam. Trill whistles of birdsong tickled his ears from afar, tucked away in the deeper thickets of the wood.

There was a familiar warmth in the magic, Harry felt, but the further they scaled down the path to the steamy clearing proper, the heavier his clothes became. Metal and brine were ever present odours, hanging limply in pockets of sluggish, humid egg-white clouds.

He savoured them.

_"This is your home, Harry,"_ whispered Hollygalleon.

_What?_

_"Your home. You've been here before. I can feel it."_

Harry shuddered and blinked. The steam was gone, but his robes were caked in sweat.

Doge was far ahead, and showed no signs of fatigue or hindrance by heavy clothing. He waved at Harry, tipping his head to the large granite monolith behind him.

_An igloo._

That was Harry's first thought upon reaching the front porch of the Crucible. A dark, speckled dome with its top and front sliced away, the building was simple and (for wizards, at least) quite practical-looking.

Doge smiled down at him, teary-eyed as he held out a Ministry sealed envelope.

"Your key, my boy," he said with an open mouthed, wobbly smile.

"But I'm only elev- "

Doge patted his head. Harry suppressed a huff.

"The Crucible knows this," the old wizard said with conviction. "It can only task you with what you can master. And you are the master of this House, Harry."

At Doge's keen behest, Harry removed the seal and gently parted the envelope. The chunky, warped copper key within certainly didn't look like it had business in opening anything, but Harry plucked it out all the same. As soon as his fingers brushed past its brittle frame, however, the scene before him melted away.

_He kept vigil by the fireplace. The cat was avoiding him, its fur still dishevelled from their previous confrontation..._

_They were in a boat. He caught something with his hands, but fell overboard. Someone cried._

_He was on the roof. He giggled as he buried his face into the broom's tail. He wasn't laughing alone-_

He heard a balloon burst between his ears. The images trickled away, and Harry found himself in the clearing once more.

"Oh, you _fool_ of a child!"

He whirled around to see Doge scurrying off to a heaving, coughing mass of bulky maroon robes.

"Lenio!" he wheezed, whipping his wand. The coughs ceased in an instant, and the ailing stranger soon found their feet without assistance. Doge seemed insistent on holding onto him, though.

"You _must not_ Apparate in such a state, my boy! Really..."

The "boy" in question reared his head to flash Doge a weak smile, and Harry recognised him right away. He had the same waify, whiskered face Hermione spotted in the old Gryffindor photograph, exhausted as ever.

"Remus L-lupin?" he said, almost choking on the surname. A werewolf stood in his midst, flanked by Doge, no less.

"Harry Potter," he replied, his voice hoarse. "You won me a few Galleons. Pleasure doing business with you!"

* * *

"We're in agreement, then? I can quill an order for Granger's admission?"

"I should think so, and Bathilda would surely regret her haste."

Emboldened by a renewed sense of hope and resolve, Albus and Minerva walked to the Hog's Head in reasonably high spirits. The School staff and Board of Governors had reached a compromise: the returning second, fourth- and sixth-year Muggle-borns would be assessed before any changes (however temporary) were made to the curriculum. It was a small victory but, in Albus' opinion, winning the extra-curricular battle was a separate matter.

"The Historians have long suffered from an old crowd," said Minerva, pursing her lips as they approached the High Street. "Granger might even be wasted on them... I've half a right mind to write a formal reprimand."

"Now Minerva, we must exercise restraint- "

Minerva cackled. "Professor Bagshot's poor conduct was inexcusable, Albus. Old Hogs be damned, my staff will not discriminate, and Miss Granger will be treated with respect."

Albus tried to avoid friction between his colleagues at the best of times, though he could not find fault in Minerva's argument. As much as he - they - loved the School, the fight-or-flight environment often presented to newcomers such as Miss Granger was far from ideal.

They relegated conversation to more trivial matters, Albus rattling off his password in hushed tones once they reached the pub. As to be expected, he saw Minerva's lips twitch from the corner of his eye.

" 'Ponciest order'," lilted Minerva as the door swung free. "Does he still begrudge your title as Herald? After all this time, Albus?"

Albus stifled a chuckle, scanning the near empty room for a sign of their party.

"Aberforth's motive behind that particular security measure is justified, some might argue."

As if summoned, his brother made his presence known with a half-hearted grunt. He sent a gruff nod Albus' way from behind the bar, pointing a finger to the stairs before hobbling into the toilets.

"I'll prefer my drink on the way back," muttered Minerva, pinching her nostrils as they passed by the putrid stalls.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was there to greet them at the top step. Shoulders stiff and eyes drawn, he looked less than happy to be clad once more in the DMLE's steel blue colours.

"On call already, Auror Shacklebolt?" asked Minerva.

Kingsley regarded her with a heavy lidded glance. "I was never off. There's a silver lining, though - we'll get to that in time."

He gestured to the door at the end of the corridor, the only one of the dozen that was firmly shut. "Shall we?"

The Professors nodded in tandem, and the trio strode forward. Kingsley waved a ruby-crowned ring finger over the brass handle, which yielded with a soft click.

It was the largest room of the inn, furnished with a splintered oak table wide enough to accommodate a large family. So said, so done; before Albus sat the skeleton crew of the Order of the Phoenix.

To most outsiders, the Order was known as a charity, which wasn't strictly false. Its members and affiliates were largely responsible for the endowments given to less fortunate Hogwarts students, late blooming Muggle-borns and refugees from the Eastern Republic among other things. Considering the invitation-only nature of its admission policy, there were conspiracy theories abound.

They were well warranted. The room housed an Obliviator, an Auror Office candidate, the Chief Unspeakable and, counting the recent arrivals, an Auror and two Hogwarts Professors.

The crème de la crème of Britannia's talented tenth.

Algie Croaker acknowledged them with a brilliant smile. "Are we roosted?"

Minerva flourished her wand; a vibrant copper sheen washed over the door. "For now."

Albus withdrew a soft, satisfied breath. "Wonderful. Kingsley - your silver lining, if you may?"

He noticed the young Nymphadora Tonks shuffle in her seat as she cast a furtive look at her superior.

Kingsley pursed his lips. "It's a small silver lining to a monstrous mug of a cloud. I'll be stationed at Hogsmeade from September until further notice."

"To protect the Castle?" said Minerva, eyes forward as she made for the remaining chair.

"Not in so many words," he replied, stroking his chin. "Director Crouch found the wording of the killer's missive alarming - as did the Minister, I hear. Whoever the culprit is, they really think they're doing the Union a service by "curing" it. That barman Henleigh was no random. It turns out that he was an informant for Investigations, of all things."

"You what?" blustered Hestia Jones beside him. "That happened months ago! Why are we only finding out about this now?"

Algie sniffed at her. "It's Thicknesse's show! What do you expect? Let me hazard a guess: Runcorn's crew, wasn't it?"

"Unfortunately," said Kingsley, his jaw set. "Henleigh spilled beans for Runcorn. Directly, not to one of his reports. Crouch would have sent him packing if it wasn't for a timely recommendation from Thicknesse and Fudge himself."

"How did the killer know that, though?" Everyone turned to the young Tonks. Eyes wide, she appeared shocked by the attention. "I mean, that's pretty high-profile, right? Runcorn's a Deputy Head. His contacts must be watertight, so how did the killer know?"

"The same way they offed Prewett," muttered Hestia. "Something's rotten in the state of York."

Kingsley cocked his head to the side. "Whether that's true or otherwise, my appointment stands. Crouch isn't convinced that Ministry families are safe, so it's to Hogsmeade I go."

"Silver lining indeed," said Albus, threading his moustache with a smile. Another year of tutorials for Harry had been secured. "I shudder to think whom he might have sent instead. As for our prospective Auror," he added, shifting his gaze, "a commendation is in order! Thank you for ensuring Remus' safe return, Miss Tonks."

The Auror Candidate gave him a thumbs up.

"Is he well now, Algernon?"

Algie stuck out his lower lip. "It was a rough Change... the boy's a fool, should've stayed put in the Dark Room... but yes, I nursed him back. You're welcome, by the way."

Albus winked. "Excellent news. He will be caring after young Harry for the duration of the summer holidays, so do feel free to- "

"Is that wise, Albus?" said Minerva, brow furrowed. "I know well that Lupin is as much of a wizard as the rest of us, but his... unique condition isn't exactly conducive to a safe environment."

"And it has been accounted for," replied Albus, inclining his head. "In addition to the Crucible are the Potter grounds, where we have made ample provisions with little more than a day's work."

"Which reminds me," said Algie, leaning back into his chair. "This outsourcing business... it has to stop, Albus. It's a waste of Galleons, and unnecessary admin for Hestia to extract the right memories from scroll-loads of contractors. Her skills are best put to use elsewhere. If this 'Worm-tail' killer is part of something bigger, which is obviously the case, we need to start recruiting assets again."

Albus nodded again. "And we shall, as soon as Miss Tonks fulfils her final trial... should she wish to accept it?"

"Bloody right I do!" said Tonks, ignoring the sharp look Minerva sent her way. "What's it gonna be, then?"

Albus chortled. "We could do to learn from such enthusiasm. What say you to a trip to Dresden, Miss Tonks?"

The young witch arched an eyebrow.

"We have an old friend there, currently officiating as the resident Warlock of the Schloss Ludgergrab. I would be most appreciative if you could deliver an invitation to him."

"Sure! What's his name?"

Albus lowered his spectacles. "Alastor Moody," he replied, his smile upturned at Tonks' gasp. "You've heard the tales, I assume."

Kingsley chuffed. "Studies them, more like..."

* * *

Harry James Potter lived the life of fairy tales.

He was a child wizard with a talking wand, whisked away from a humdrum-yet-loving orphanage to study magic in a living, breathing castle, as was his birthright.

And now, in the likewise mystical dwelling of his ancestors, Harry sat in a cosy kitchen quite reminiscent of an empty fish bowl. To top it all off, a round mahogany dining table was the only object standing in the path of the werewolf sat before him.

"So much like James, isn't he?" said Doge, clapping Lupin's shoulder.

He nodded slowly. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Lupin's gaze transcended the room.

"It's all there," he finally said, wiping a hand over his face. "The hair, his jaw... but those eyes... "

Doge rubbed his hands together. "Good stuff! I'll let you two get acquainted, then! I've got a few errands to run, so- "

"You're leaving already, sir?" said Harry, wincing at the squeak that escaped his mouth.

"Not to worry, my boy," he replied, tipping his fez. "Remus is more than capable. Few could claim to be better company, I'd say!"

Lupin seemed to withdraw on himself, weary eyes hovering over the kitchen door after Doge's retreating form.

Harry cleared his throat. "So... "

"I understand, Harry."

"Er, what?"

Lupin wore a plaintive smile. "I know you've read the papers. Everyone has."

"Oh." Harry scratched his head. "Yeah, I... it's- um, sorry."

Lupin waved a hand at him, rising from his seat to stretch his arms. "It's fine, Harry. Wizards fear werewolves for a reason."

"But you're a wizard too," said Harry, frowning. Lupin looked at him, bemused. "You went to Hogwarts, I know that much."

They were silent for a moment. Lupin snorted, gazing out at the window as he waved his wand. A pair of glasses filled with apple juice - one at the table, the other at the kitchen sink - appeared before Harry's eyes.

"We never meant to keep that a secret, as such," said Lupin wistfully, arms crossed as he leaned against the sink. "Not when I'd finished my N.E.W.T.s. But things... changed after that. I'm sure you know the story."

"Grindelwald."

"Among other things," answered Lupin in a short, tired breath. "Being able to use witchcraft in my... condition... landed me a job in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries."

"Department of Mysteries? It sounds top secret," mused Harry.

Lupin grimaced. "It is. Non-execs like me aren't bound to absolute secrecy, but we are mostly segregated from other Departments and the public alike. Only a handful of people knew of my whereabouts after Hogwarts, besides your... parents. _Merlin_."

Harry watched on as Lupin took a sip of apple juice. "Is this the first time we've met?"

Lupin looked up from his glass, setting it down with a soft _clink_.

"I'm afraid so," he said, returning to his seat. "It doesn't mean I'm not glad to meet- "

"No, of course not!" said Harry, shaking his head. "I just thought there was something familiar... your name... _yes_! You filmed my Dad's highlights, didn't you?"

Lupin whistled. "My, my! Didn't know I had a following, but that sounds about right. I considered myself quite the cinematographer back in the day. Everyone encouraged it, especially your mother. To tell you the truth, I felt like a disappointment after taking that job."

Harry felt his stomach tighten. "Did she know... ?"

"_They_ did," said Lupin, glancing at the ceiling. "My er - handler - gave me a list of people I could stay in touch with after I was recruited. James was at the top."

Harry's eyes widened. "You worked for Sir Albus too?"

Lupin mirrored his expression for a moment before letting out a short chuckle.

"Yes and no. But I've a question to ask: how much do _you_ know, Harry?"

Harry looked at his yet untouched glass of apple juice, peering into its golden depths as if to divine his answer.

"That my parents and everyone they know were secret agents and or mad scientists?"

Lupin guffawed; Harry joined in. "You've a wonderful mind. James and Lily's son! My... "

They fell quiet for a time, until Harry felt a flash of heat against his side. His wand had been strangely silent up to that point.

_Yes, Holly?_

_"Playing dumb, are we? The parchment, idiot!"_

_Not now… Not _right_ now._

"Mr Lupin? I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Peter Pettigrew."

Lupin's face, which had sustained a dreamy smile before then, lost what little colour it had left.

He breathed through his nose, nodding tightly. "I'd be a liar if I said I didn't see that one coming. We spent seven years together, didn't we? I warn you, though – it's a long story."

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_How's your summer going? Did Mr. Watts mail your Phoenix Pipe in the end? You shouldn't worry if he didn't, though. Take it as a compliment!_

_The Crucible is WICKED. I don't even need to walk from the shower to the kitchen, because there's a chute that takes you there! Scratch that: it takes you everywhere! Well, down to the basement, but it's a nice ride._

_I haven't been into the village yet. Professor Doge says it would be an all-day thing because the locals would want to play "catch-up". It's annoying, but I think he's right. It would be awkward all the way through because they know my family better than I do!_

_On the upside, he said Sir Albus reckons that I can take my Wand License next summer! How cool is that? I still have to wait until O.W.L year before I can sit the international one (means you can use it in Muggle zones too) but it's a result, I suppose. Who knows – maybe I can get on the Circuit if next year goes well._

_Which reminds me… You'll come to Stonehenge, won't you? I'll probably go a few times with Cedric and Susan, so if you want to meet up after a practice, I'd be on it.  
_

_Did the Weasleys get you anything for your exams? Ron was certain he'd get a broom for beating Fred and George's first-year reports. You'd better not ask for an Almanac. The Hogwarts one should be more than enough._

_Write soon!_

_Harry_

_P.S. I've got a very good feeling about the "White Paper". Hopefully I'll have something for you when we meet up next._

"Hmm… Your mapping on the fifth set needs a bit more work, but… Hermione? Are you with us?"

Hermione tore her eyes away from the letter. "Sorry. Yes, Arthur?"

The red-haired wizard laughed under his breath as he removed his goggles.

"That's a dangerous game, mind," he said with a wry smile. " I made the mistake of reading a letter while enchanting many years ago. The broom I was working on only flew on Sundays after that!"

Hermione twiddled her thumbs. "That sounds terribly inconvenient."

"And how! Now then," said Arthur, grasping the small copper pyramid on their workstation and holding it up to the light. "It's a fine piece of work, all in all. If we were to fit the car with it as is, your Angling Array should keep for, let's see... three years? Give or take."

Hermione's eyes bulged, and Arthur regarded her with a lazy grin.

"No need to play modest now, Miss Granger! Mark my words: there'll be a an Assistant Head position with your name on it once you finish Hogwarts."

It certainly was not the kind of compliment Hermione wanted, but she appreciated the sentiment. The Ministry meant something radically different to Arthur Weasley, after all. His work there was a labour of love, turning just one of many cogs to run a well-oiled machine of governance.

But all machines were susceptible to faults.

"Arthur?" The Weasley patriarch beamed yet still, beckoning her to continue. She took a deep breath. "Why are some people just... what makes, erm... someone... _better_ at magic?"

Arthur did a double take for a moment before chuckling again.

"Only you, my dear!" he said, hands on hips as his laughs rocked the walls themselves.

Maybe Ron _was _right about the Burrow's structural integrity.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "Oh my... sorry, Hermione. I just don't think you could _do _much better right now. As you were saying?"

She flashed a small smile. "It was, well, my Augo Profile."

"A perfectly good score, indeed."

Hermione shrugged. "But how many Muggle-borns reach that? You know, relatively?"

They were both quiet for a time. Hermione feared the worst as Arthur sighed, taking a seat on the bench in front of her.

"It's always been a touchy topic, that. But I wonder... do you know the average score for a Common Welsh Green?"

Hermione shook her head. She was aware that the Profile could be applied to most magical creatures, but all the papers she could lay her hands on seemed to focus on wizards.

"A seven, if you could believe that. Consider the average wizard ranks in the late thirties, and that each point is a _wave, _not one per cent..."

"But the 'average wizard' can't even use a wand!" said Hermione. "An adolescent dragon could raze an entire village if provoked!"

_Eldritch Disasters of the Modern Age _had been a poor choice for late-night reading.

"While I'd disagree that Sorcery is always the answer," said Arthur, fingers splayed, "you'd be mostly right. But take this into account: throw a ten-year-old witch and an infant dragon off a cliff. Who is most likely to survive?"

Hermione couldn't answer.

"The witch, Hermione. _Always _the witch. The Augo Profile's central purpose is to show how well you can use your magic, and that means accounting for all those little variables that we don't think about day-to-day. The fact is, wizards are some of the most adaptable magical creatures on the planet.

"As for Muggle-borns, there are many theories... most are bunk. The current consensus is this. Barring an outlier, like yourself, Muggle-borns are stunted because they don't interact with external magics from an early age. It's why they tried to push for Muggle-born reclamation from birth many years ago."

Hermione huffed. "Sometimes I think I'd be better off."

"You don't mean that, dear- "

"No, I do!" she shouted. "I'm sick and tired of being an 'outlier', Mr Weasley! I'm sick of being tolerated because I'm a little less rubbish than the other Mudbloods- "

"Now _Hermione- "_

"This world doesn't even _want _me! So why did it take me from mine?"

Arthur laid warm, calloused hands on her trembling shoulders. His clear blue eyes were wide and pleading.

"You're safe here, Hermione. Safer than you ever could have been if they'd left you alone. It was for your- "

"_No." _Never before had Hermione felt such conviction in her own words.

She had it all figured out now.

"This wasn't for my safety. It was for yours. For wizards. No Muggle-borns, no accidental magic."

"Come now, Hermione," said Arthur, cocking his head. "You're smarter than that. The New-blood Salvage Act would have passed if that were the case."

"But it's true," she replied, sneering. "Why take them at eleven? Why erase the family's memories but not the child's?"

"We give them a _choice, _Hermione. We give them the facts, and they make a choice."

Hermione bit her tongue as hard as she could. She would _not_ cry.

"You accepted. Your parents accepted."

She blinked, and she was there again. Her mother, tears streaming down her cheeks as she signed the form... her father, sniffling and wiping his nose as he hugged his daughter for dear life...

"You knew you'd be better off. No more accidents. No more death threats."

Her eyes were wet; she blinked once more. A flash of vivid turquoise light permeated the room... her heart was crushed by their glassy-eyed stares...

"But they loved you, Hermione."

She shuddered at his embrace, and the dam finally broke.

"They did it for you."

* * *

_Meet me in the hay patch at 3, sharp. Bring goodies?_

_H_

Neville had sat patiently for over a half-hour, which was an untold ordeal as far as he was concerned.

He wasn't scared. Gran would be in London for the rest of the weekend, and Tippy was good enough at impersonating him, so as long as she didn't get too close to the Floo, he'd be out of trouble.

Not that he was breaking curfew, anyway: Elmwood Gardens was the most popular field in Wizarding York, more so due to its calming effect on people than the fact that the Longbottoms owned it. It was open to the public, but not everyone was encouraged to visit. He was reminded of that as he spotted a pink-faced girl peeping through the bushes on the other side of the clearing.

"Over 'ere, Hannah!" The girl goggled at him before scurrying over in a large chequered blanket.

Neville barked with laughter, which earned him a blanket-clad cuff to the skull.

"You're unbelievable, you are," he said, rummaging through his sack of sweets as Hannah laid down her blanket. "No one cares that you're here - have a Frog."

She snatched it from him with a sour look. "She's paid off the forest elves, Nev. They started throwing eggs at me!"

Neville rolled his eyes. "They don't like witchfolk, period. I'll give my Uncle a word about the rent. Maybe he can talk some sense into my Gran."

"I'm not holding my breath," said Hannah, biting into her Chocolate Frog. "Thank you, though."

Neville took a deep whiff of the air, placing his hands behind his head as he lay on the blanket. A Jobberknoll screamed in the distance.

"Poor thing," he mumbled, scratching his nose. "They only live for a couple months, you know."

Hannah hummed. "Could be worse."

"Could be Draco," they said in unison before bursting into laughter.

"It's been so boring since he moved down south," said Hannah, resting her chin on her knees.

Neville scoffed. "He's only a Floo away. Thought that was too close for you?"

"It is." They started laughing again.

"Heard from anyone at school?" asked Neville, glancing over at Hannah.

She nodded. "Mostly Susan. She writes every other day."

"About what?"

"Potter."

"You're _kidding_."

"It's not what you think," she said with a giggle, throwing her head back as she stretched her arms across the blanket. "Cedric in third-year is on about some summer practice, and she's not really keen on it."

"I thought she'd made up with Harry?"

Hannah nodded, but with a small wince. "Did you read the _Prophet _last week, though?"

Neville arched an eyebrow.

"Potter was in the Sports section."

"No way!" bellowed Neville.

Hannah snorted. "That's how I _know _you don't read. They cover School-level events! Anyway, it was all this noise about Potter being the second coming of his dad, so yeah, Susie's hoping it won't go to his head, Jumpsparked prat he is."

"It will," said Neville, crossing his arms, "but not like she thinks. Harry worships his dad."

"Like you."

Neville didn't answer her.

"Do you... you know," she said, prodding his side with a boot, "still talk to him?"

"In my Grimoire?" She nodded. "Um... not really, no."

Hannah frowned. "What happened."

"Christmas," said Neville under his breath, picking up a blade of dried grass. He started to peel it apart, pleading with the Wild that she wouldn't press the matter. He'd left the old tome in the basement for the time being.

"When you started talking to me again, you mean."

Neville cursed out loud, causing Hannah to flinch.

"Sorry," he said, crumbling the blade of grass as he balled a fist. "But yeah, it was then. I asked him for advice, about the money problem with my Nan and he said something... nasty."

"About who?"

"Your mum, Hannah," he said, not daring to look up. "He said they're called... M-mudbloods for a reason."

Hannah said nothing.

"I'm sorry," he said, still looking at the floor. "I just didn't think he would be like _that, _you know? We don't say that in my house. Gran would Sting me for that one, and my Uncle _really _hates that sort of- "

"It's okay, Neville."

Neville exhaled. "But... it isn't. Is it?"

He couldn't bear to glance up at her, but Neville would bet his Wireless that Hannah was shaking her head.

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Many thanks for reading, all! I was a bit later with this one than expected, but there was a lot of ground to cover. Just one more "Summer" chapter before Hogwarts opens again. I know there's so much left to reveal, but please do hold on. All (at least everything relevant to the Untitled Tome arc) will be explained by the end, so I hope you stick along for the ride.


	19. Lisa Learns A Lesson

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Remus makes an omelette, Cedric gets knocked down, and Harry is almost late.

**A/N: **Sorry for the lateness, everyone - I'm having to chop this update into two, it seems, so expect a similarly-sized chapter of end-of-summer/back to Hogwarts sooner than usual! Again, sorry!

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen - Lisa Learns A Lesson**

**The Daily Prophet, July 9th 1992**

**HARK! THE BARON: POTTER PICKED FOR STARTING JUNIORS**

**by Maggie BELL**

_Hogwarts School has a lot to celebrate following this year's season. Retiring captain Bobby Jordan is a shoo-in for the next GC Level Two draw in October, and current Level Zero giant "Sickle Bella" Yaxley was quoted last month as expressing the desire to guest coach her alma mater's squad in the coming term. But next year's line-up is where it really counts, and it looks like the Barmy Baron's son is set to don the family mantle._

_With a skinny build, dark features and a strong chin to boot, Harry Potter is the spitting image of his father as a child. But the similarities don't stop there, recalls legendary wandsman and Pearclyfe School coach Monty Bowell:_

_"At first I said to myself, 'Monty, you've never seen a comeback like that!' and that's when I remembered: yes, I had. It was just like his old man and me, back in '78. Jim lost in the end, three sets to two - I mean, this is me we're talking about - but it was a close one, and I would've killed to do it again if I hadn't been forced to retire that season."_

_Harry, 11, is described as an odd but amiable student. Top of the class in more than one subject, he's known to be a bright spark - and a hot one, too._

_"You have to be mental to mess with that kid," says Arjan Kokhar, fellow first-year pupil and self-proclaimed Dolohov fanatic. "I heard the last time the Squad tried, he set them all on fire!"_

_But the young survivor to the Chief House has brought a couple of his own signature spices to the plate. For one, he's Muggle-raised, and with his recent mixed-blood heritage, pundits might expect to see a Jumpspark with more outlandish demonstrations than the late Baron in time. If that wasn't enough, little Harry James is also a left-hander._

_"I'll be a troll's toothpick if you know a kid with a Pounder that crisp," says Bowell, 66, who refereed a friendly bout in February which pit Potter against Miriam Hynes of the Mould-on-the-Wold Sorcerer's Scheme. "Say what you want about Dark wizards, but they aren't feared for having limp wrists. All things said and done, I want to see Potter move out of his Squire's Square - expand his repertoire. If he's anything like his dad, and I think he is, he'd take to Conjury tricks like a Dugbog to Mandrakes."_

_Harry Potter made headlines last year for an unusually broad Augo Profile. With this recent development it seems that the hype isn't completely unfounded, but will the Baron's heir rise to the occasion?_

* * *

In the end, the Potters' Grimoire did not disappoint.

The blueprints of the Crucible's interior comprised four cylindrical floors, enveloping an enormous steel chimney at the core. The two lower levels, off limits pending "further preparation" as stated by Sir Albus' last letter, were indeed underground and ostensibly wider when one accounted for the myriad tunnels popping in and out of the ground floor's boot room.

"Took us months to spruce it all up," Doge once told Harry as he admired a staircase which encased the surprisingly frigid chimney. "That Cattermole boy and his elves were stuck downstairs for a whole weekend!"

In contrast to its sable granite shell, the Crucible seemed to perspire light from within. In an airy spiral queue of mahogany arches and terracotta walls, every room, passage and cupboard he encountered was dazzlingly bright unless ordered otherwise. Harry made the mistake of doing exactly that after inspecting a broom closet upstairs. The portrait within obliged before nodding off to sleep, and the ensuing darkness taught him the painful lesson of how thick the Crucible's bricks really were.

Mr Lupin handled his spectacle repair quite well, though.

But the best and worst feature of the house, in Harry's opinion, was its distinct lack of people. Mr Lupin lauded the view of Godric's Hollow from a balcony along the domed roof, though the amount of steam expelled by the chimney at times gave Harry second thoughts concerning that particular venture.

So far, his interaction with the rest of the wizarding world was mostly confined to the Maga Morgause Duellists' Club in Amesbury, near Stonehenge. Team Foxtrot held practices there twice a week, courtesy of Mr Diggory whose grandfather was once Treasurer and Chairman (as he liked to remind them after every session).

His other source of social activity was, of course, "Harry! Breakfast!"

Slinging his satchel over his shoulder and strapping Hollygalleon to his thigh, Harry slid down the staircase banister to the ground floor where a mitten-clad Lupin stood looking none too impressed.

"You're going to get me in trouble, one of these days."

Harry made a face. "Don't you know any first aid?"

"I specialise in surgical spells, actually," said Lupin, crossing his arms, "so bear in mind that more of that lip might get your mouth stitched together."

Harry chuffed under his breath, but said nothing else as he followed him to the kitchen. He gathered that if Lupin really was the wizarding equivalent of a mad scientist, pushing his buttons wasn't worth the resultant horrific experimentation - no matter how curious he was about that stitching spell.

The wizard-cum-werewolf wasn't half-bad as far as guardians went, though Harry only had the Doge Experience with which to make a comparative assessment. Given that outings with Doge led to him getting accosted twenty-five per cent of the time, the odds were unquestionably in Lupin's favour.

Moreover, his omelettes were to die for.

"What's in this one, Mr Lupin?" asked Harry.

"We've been over this, Harry. It's _Remus._"

"But that sounds weird," said Harry, taking the plunge blind. It was spicy. "_Ow. _I'll try."

"Thanks," said Lupin, winking. "I added extra cayenne peppers to the sauce. Might've overdone it."

Harry cocked his head. "It's fine, I guess. Just a bit of a shock."

"Rule number one of miscreant wizardry," said Lupin, waving his own fork. "The element of surprise is key."

_Key..._

Harry did a double take. He was meeting Hermione today: surely Lupin had proven himself trustworthy by now?

"Mr Lupin? Sorry. _Ree_mus? I was wondering if you could help me with something."

"It's why I'm here, Harry."

"Great." Harry knit his brow. "It's just that it's very, erm, sensitive information. For a friend."

Remus gave him a blank look, then leaned into his chair.

"Well, I said I'd help." He looked back at Harry. "It's not illegal, is- "

"Of course not. Not by Ministry law, anyway."

Remus opened his mouth for a second, then nodded slowly.

"Fair play, Messr Potter - fire away."

Harry combed through his satchel, procuring the blank cut of parchment the Weasley boys had pilfered from Pringle.

"Yule Nineteen seventy," he said, handing it over. "This was confiscated from Peter Pettigrew. We know that it's enchanted, but other than the odd doodle we can't get it to show us anything."

Remus gawked at it. Harry made to explain further, but stopped when he noticed the care with which the older wizard held the artefact.

"It's still in one piece. I can't believe it..."

Harry's eyes widened. "What is it, Remus?"

Remus looked up at him, grinning. He drew his wand and grazed it across the parchment with a quivering wrist.

_"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."_

Harry sucked in a breath; it was just like watching the Grimoire come to life for the first time. Splatters and swirls of ink bled into the yellowing fibres_, _coalescing at the centre to reveal a disquieting message:

_Messrs MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT &amp; PRONGS_

_are proud to present_

_The MARAUDER'S MAP_

He felt his stomach flip.

"Wormtail," Harry said aloud, struck by how hollow it sounded. "The killer calls themselves Wormtail."

Remus' brow was marred with fatigue. "And that's what's so puzzling. I try not to think about it."

Harry couldn't help himself. "Do you think... do you think he did it?"

Remus looked him in the eye. "I _know_ he didn't. Don't ask me how - I know it might appear that adults always have the answers, but I'm just not one of them, unfortunately."

Harry gave him a plaintive nod. _Dumbledore_,_ though..._

"So... it's a map?"

Remus' mouth twitched. "Not just any. _The._"

"Interesting." Harry sat back, frankly underwhelmed. "I don't quite follow, though."

"It's of Hogwarts," said Remus, sighing.

Harry clicked his tongue. "Yes, I gathered. But what's stopping me from making my own?"

Remus goggled at Harry for a short moment before snorting.

"I wasn't aware that you could cast the Homonculous Hypergraph, Harry."

"I'd find it pretty difficult," replied Harry. "Especially since it sounds made up."

Remus stared at the parchment again, glassy-eyed.

"You don't know the half of it."

* * *

The Knight Bus ride to Amesbury couldn't take long enough.

"The _Homonculous Hypergraph_... so all of you wove these sigils?" asked Harry, eyes whizzing over the dozen pairs of minuscule dots as they scurried over inky-brown corridors (bar Hagrid's, whose own icon took up a tenth of the lawns). "Modular, like?"

"Yep. The three of us, anyway."

Harry whistled. Just like that, his problem of not having enough hours in a Hogwarts day was slashed by a third. All he needed now was some sort of sleeping draught regimen for the weekends.

"Hermione would love this... So who was the odd one out? There were four of you, right?"

"Peter," said Remus, grimacing. "His speciality lay in, ah, security. The password and responses were his touch." He cleared his throat. "So, how's practice going?"

"Can't complain," said Harry plainly, though he honestly could.

He'd agreed to practise twice a week at the Club, full stop. Mr Diggory's grandstanding throughout and beyond wasn't part of the deal, though Harry took a certain level of satisfaction in the knowledge that it embarrassed Cedric and hacked Bones off even more than it did him.

Remus wore a twisted smile. "Raring to go, aren't we?"

"Don't get me wrong," said Harry, playing with the straps on his glove. "It's just annoying when the cheerleaders are all old men who hate wearing hose."

Remus laughed, as did Hollygalleon.

**"Armand's Walk, Amesbury!"**

The Knight Bus popped to a halt, dropping off the lion's share of its passengers before setting off again. The marble-paved paths of Amesbury's wizarding hub were teeming with wizards, elves and even the odd goblin or two, and a good few hundred people - all clothed in various states of Muggle undress - stood in a queue outside a mammoth cinder underpass which led to the so-called "MUGGLE HENGES", as described by the bright orange signpost above the barrier.

"No rods, no wands, no rings!" boomed a tiny middle-aged witch wearing a luminous green hat. "Loan chests are located on your left, Madams and Wizards!"

A beefy warlock donning an identical hat cleaved himself through the line, dragging the occasional hopeful away for wearing Kelpie-hair shorts.

"Wasn't Midsummer last month?" asked Harry. He couldn't think of any other reason for witchfolk to flock to the Muggle site in droves.

"Holidays," said Remus, eyes forward as they strolled past the queue. "Going Muggle is the cheapest option out there. For human-looking types, anyway."

"Cheap?" Harry scoffed. "Have you been to London?"

Remus wore a puffed-up grin. "Yes. And the last time I did, the Muggles didn't apply Switch-Stoppers or Double Detectors to their goods, so I'm afraid that your point is moot."

"Isn't that - well - _illegal_? And dangerous?"

Remus barked a laugh. "Backfiring magic is half the fun of a holiday, Harry! Besides - there is, to my knowledge, a grand total of zero laws within the UK concerning the surveillance of maleficent wizardry. Scheduled or otherwise."

"But the Statute- "

"I repeat," said Remus, waggling a finger, "zero laws within the UK. If a Muggle doesn't see you do it, then what's the issue?"

Harry stared at him for a moment, then exhaled. "I keep forgetting that it isn't the same country."

"Even with all the flying brooms and dancing trees?" Remus laughed harder at Harry's dour look. "My mother had the same problem."

"She was a Muggle-born?" asked Harry.

Remus shook his head. "Muggle. One of the last around before FURoRE."

"Furore... ?"

"They haven't covered that?" said Remus, stopping in his tracks. "Are they still teaching Muggle-borns at Hogwarts?"

Harry nodded.

"Woden kill me... " Remus ran a hand over his mouth. "Let's get a cold drink. You're early, aren't you?"

One roadside table and the purchase of two Hissing Honeydews later, Remus began his tale.

"All in all, it didn't change much on the grand scheme of things. We've had our own turf since before Hogwarts, and the Muggles never could bother us even if they wanted to. But Muggle-borns were the final link, often looked at as nuisance remnants of the disaster that was - _is _\- wizard-Muggle relations. With the magical population having grown to what it had by then and Grindelwald's lot doing who knows what, we had our own problems trying to conceal ourselves, so they proposed the Salvage Act- "

"Which was thrown out thanks to Prewett and the Union Party," said Harry, making his drink sizzle as he twirled his straw. "But they still take Muggle-borns once they're old enough to do magic."

Remus nodded. "You _have _been learning, then. So yes, the traditionalists went one step further. By appealing to the ICW and maintaining that any reclamation would be consensual for all parties involved, the Fantastic Universal Right of Return Enterprise was established worldwide in the Seventies. And you know the story from there."

"Yeah, pretty - consensual?"

"Of course," said Remus, lip quirked. "You didn't think they'd Obliviate Muggles and take their kids without asking them first, did you?"

Of course he did. In what bizarre world would people consent to such a practice?

_"You're really asking that, idiot?" _muttered Hollygalleon.

"It's still reprehensible," said Remus, waving a placating hand. "They really milk it. Telling the parents horror stories about death threats and witch-hunts... burnings... it's slimy. But you can't strip someone of magic. You can just about throttle it, even. So FURoRE's just one of those necessary evils, you know? Your Mum supported it wholeheartedly."

That Lily Potter would advocate such an exercise despite her heritage was shocking enough, but Harry felt a torturous pang as he thought of Hermione. Her parents signed her away, just like that.

_But then..._

"That can't be right, Remus. I lived like a Muggle because my parents ordered it. Doge said so. If they were in favour of that law, what could have possibly changed their minds?"

Remus leaned back in his seat, flummoxed.

"I honestly haven't the foggiest, Harry."

* * *

_"Immobulus!"_

Harry Parried the bright blue threads of mist to his right, whipping his wrist as he countered with a Disarming Charm. Susan's own spell dove into the sand, some of which froze in mid-air as it was scattered by the impact.

_She's rather fond of that one..._

Susan made a florid Dance out of the rosy jet's path, forming a quarter-circle with her back mostly turned to Harry. Her eyes, however, remained locked onto his as she flicked her wand.

Hollygalleon giggled. _"Maybe she wants you all for herself!"_

He Drove forward, arching his neck just so to avoid the second wave of blue threads, the fizzing sounds ringing in his ear as they passed within a hair's breadth of his face.

Susan was livid.

_"EXPELLIARMUS!" _they cried together. The dual jets of pink warped as they met at the centre of the circular platform; with a scarlet flash and a loud _bang, _Harry and Susan were both deprived of their wands.

"Bravo! Bra-_vo_! Simply _magnificent!_"

Susan blanched. As he turned around, Harry was greeted by the ruddy visage of none other than Amos Diggory, who was skipping over to the platforms with his mortified son in tow.

"All right, guys?" said Cedric with a limp wave. His fragile, sculpted smile only made Harry pity him more.

His father chortled. "Oh, they're far better than all right, lad. They're downright prodigious! Maybe not on your level, but we'll see just yet!"

Looking back, Harry's stomach fell upon discovering that Susan was no longer there. Mr Diggory swiftly closed the distance between them, clamping a stubby but powerful arm across Harry's sides.

"Welcome home, lad," he said with a brief squeeze. "You'll go far here - all of you will!"

Harry nodded his thanks with a ghost of a smile. Mr Diggory was probably referring to his Dad's sponsorship by MacFusty's club in the Hebrides. He hadn't let him forget it since their first practice, leading Harry to speculate whether the elder wizard was luring him into a decade-long plot of heinous reprisal.

Cedric managed to snake his own arm over Harry's shoulders, directing him towards the core of the field for which he couldn't be more grateful.

"Nithya's giving a demo, thought you'd want to see." He did.

Nithya Gadhavi was one of the resident professionals at the Club. Harry hadn't heard her swear once, which said a lot considering the language one could learn from many of the senior members.

Her pleasant, laid-back demeanour belied her skill, though. Having finished at Pearlclyfe a few years ago, Nithya was an A-bracket duellist in the Level One league, and her impromptu Disarming lesson with Harry was an invaluable one, if humbling. In their first round, she claimed his wand in one half-second.

"Have you ever been out here at night?" asked Harry after he nearly tripped over a gargoyle's talon.

Cedric looked at him askance. "Would you?"

Outdoor sparring ceased in the mid-afternoon. It made for a haunting scene; the grass was cut with spirit-level precision, while the crottle-peppered rocks were carved with little care and haphazardly placed. The central platform, known as the Giants' Ring and purportedly crafted by Merlin the Younger, was surrounded by a lofty stone circle which cast imposing shadows over the rest of the grounds during the day.

The range was more for pride than practicality, Harry thought. The Club itself was a relatively modern building, with brightly coloured wallpaper and spotless carpets, and its indoor studios were much more accommodating: every platform had its own Hex-Zappers, and there wasn't a scoop of Charm-compliant sand in sight. And yet, the outdoor Giants' Ring was considered the main feature above all else, consistently ranking in _Warlocks of Whimsy_'s Top Five for competitive settings.

"Oops! Watch yer noggin, Digsy!"

Cedric flinched on the spot, and was cuffed across the cheek by a puff of charcoal smoke. Harry swore as the Hufflepuff doubled over in a sneezing fit.

"Well damn," said a short-robed, stocky wizard atop a nearby platform. His partner, an elderly witch, rolled her eyes as she hopped off the ledge with a flask in hand.

"Come on Diggory, take this!" Crouching over Cedric's form, she thrust the flask up (his mouth or nose, Harry couldn't tell) and had him on his feet within seconds.

"For Tiw's sake, Grantham!" snapped Cedric, storming over to the stocky wizard. "Want to work on your aim, maybe?"

Grantham scratched the back of his thinning scalp, face flushed. "Well I - that was kinda the poi- "

"Just ask us to put a Hex-Zapper up next time! And put some hose on. It's July, not Gibraltar!"

Grantham gave Cedric a sheepish smile as he left the platform, lumbering over to the changing rooms amidst a round of jeers.

"Bloody Lumps," muttered the elderly witch. Harry looked at her, bemused.

_"Maybe it's a wizard term for Yanks," _said Holly.

_Could be, but it doesn't make it okay._

_"Aww,"_ it gushed, _"I like it when you get all righteous."_

A large crowd had gathered at the Giants' Ring already, but it wasn't difficult to find Nithya. Short though she was, the duellist was always the centre of attention, and Harry didn't know a more unique signal than her high-pitched cackle. His eyes snapped towards the source of the laugh, and there she was, standing next to a lanky dark-skinned wizard of roughly the same age.

_"Is that...?" _murmured Holly.

"He thinks he's flash, doesn't he?" Nithya twittered to a pair of old witches before winking at the taller wizard. "Don't you, Kofi?"

_Wait - Kofi Agyeman? No way. _

To say that Harry was in awe was an understatement. Kofi Agyeman was only the second Level Zero duellist he had met in person, and one of the handful he followed once Neville had introduced him to the Grand Circuit's Wireless channel. In a division saturated with hard hitters, Agyeman was a speed demon. His showing against Rousseau in April was the perfect case study - he plucked the Frenchman's wand with his own fingers. It was an instant disqualification - a "Mughand", they called it - but it was funny, and Neville said that Rousseau was a dirty player anyway.

Agyeman chuckled at Nithya, revealing a set of even, gleaming teeth.

"She demanded I ask her to dinner. I refused," he said with a soft accent which Harry couldn't quite place, hands behind his back like a scolded child. "Whoever loses should pay, ah?"

The witches laughed in chorus; Nithya's eyes shot open as Harry strode towards them.

"Harry! C'mere!"

She bounded around him, ushering him towards the towering Agyeman. "Go on, say hi!"

Harry stuck out a shaky hand. "N-nice to meet you, sir."

"And you, for sure," said Agyeman, grinning as he gave Harry's hand a firm shake. "You're a Hogwarts boy?"

Harry gawked at him, wondering how on Earth he could tell before exclaiming in realisation. He was still wearing Hogwarts' Old Mauve; Susan _did_ tell him to get his own duelling kit.

"Yes sir," he said with an eager nod. "Just finished my first year!"

"Ah, congratulations!" replied Agyeman, beaming. "It is a splendid castle. I studied there for a summer many years ago."

"A summer?"

"We had an exchange, your school and mine. You've heard of Uagadou?"

He'd read about it. Uagadou was rivalled only by The Alexandrian on the African continent, and it was the world's foremost authority on Divination. It was fitting, for Agyeman hadn't blinked once as of yet: his title of 'All-Seeing Owl' apparently wasn't unfounded.

"If we're allowed to study abroad, then it's definitely on my list," said Harry.

Agyeman laughed. "A good choice, friend."

"Harry's a right little rascal with a wand," said Nithya, jostling him. "Got a nasty Pounder, haven't you?"

Harry felt his face burn. "I'm just here to learn," he said, eyeing the Giants' Ring with fervent anticipation.

"For sure, for sure," said Agyeman, hands on hips as he turned to the platform. "Ah. When do we start?"

Nithya bounced towards the stone circle, the crowd eventually following suit. Feeling a light poke at the back of his head, Harry whirled around to find a gleeful Susan.

"Told you."

"What?" he said, eyes narrowed.

She pointed at his jerkin. "To get another kit. I heard Agyeman - he probably thinks you're a hardship student."

"Why would I care?" he said, snorting. "All that matters is our tally, and so far I'm wi- "

"Shut up," she said briskly, shooing him away. "They're about to start!"

Harry observed as the opponents bowed, shifting into their first stances in a fluid yet decisive movement. After a tense second of silence, Nithya presented the butt of her wand and turned to the spectators.

"Our lesson for today," she said, arms flung in a grand posture towards Agyeman, "is how to tackle a hummingbird."

She smirked at the ensuing "oohs" from the crowd; Harry heard a snigger escape Susan's lips.

"Not excited?" said Harry.

Susan shrugged. "Of course. But I thought he'd be the one teaching. He's out of her league. Literally, she'd have no chance!_"_

Harry just shook his head, deciding not to feed the nucleus of negativity that was his irritable team-mate.

"Now look at his stance," said Nithya, gesturing at the lanky wizard's joints. "This is a standard Cavalier - lax and limp, but fully in control. Cool? Okay - I'm gonna work through the Olorum pattern now. While I do, watch his eyes."

Nithya proceeded to weave in and out of every marker on her side of the platform, floating against the light windy current as a swan would fan its wings. Wherever she landed, Agyeman's eyes would surely go.

The wizard did not blink.

It brought Merrythought and Cedric's exercise to mind: if his eyes were locked on the opponent, his 'style' of stance wouldn't even matter.

"He's like a statue," whispered Susan. "Not even a twitch."

As if on cue, Nithya whirled on the spot, and her wand sliced through the air in a spiral manoeuvre. No visual cue came forward, but Harry heard a squishy, whipping sort of sound soar towards Agyeman.

Had _he _blinked, Harry would have missed the imperceptible flex of the master duellist's fingers. The sound was smothered in an instant, and the spectators gasped in astonishment.

"They don't make them like that around here," he heard one of the older members murmur.

"_Dolohov_," another stage-coughed.

The first tutted. "But he's _Ruthenian._ Who knows what experiments the Trishula did on him?"

"Do you read, Wilson? He's from Moscow - they're on our side, twit!"

Though Harry found the titbit of world politics intriguing, it sailed quite a ways over his head. He could expand his knowledge there another time, however: Nithya was addressing them again.

"Learn your repertoire, and wand movements are near enough redundant. Add that to second-nature Cavalier stances and you get an opponent who might switch from playful to barbaric in the blink of an eye, but _never_ on your time."

Agyeman chuckled again, but he was very much alone.

Nithya pointed a finger to her temple. "Not because they're physically or even mentally more agile - though it does help with that - but it's the magical expression of the stances themselves. Every gesture has one, remember!"

And there it was: the flicker of the proverbial light-bulb. How hadn't he seen it before? Sure, _DUEL Volume III _glossed over symbolism in the martial arts, but it never mentioned any tangible effects.

_"_All _magic is symbolic, idiot," _sighed Holly. _"You know that."_

"What's that girl on about, 'expression'?" mumbled the voice who went by 'Wilson'.

Harry turned to the baffled wizard, nodding in Agyeman's direction.

"The stance is magical," he said quietly, tracing a finger over the duellist's form. "See the way his joints line up? Go this way... you get the Teeth of Apophis. _That_ way, fingers to heels, and it's the compound sigil for Rogziel. Chaos and wrath. Spooky, isn't it?"

Wilson nodded mutely, eyes transfixed as Nithya resumed her demonstration. Feeling a burning sensation to the side of his face, Harry glanced at his left.

Susan squinted at him. "What hole did you pull that out of?"

"It's just Cardinals," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. Someone behind him (who sounded much like the witch who was sparring the American) giggled at his response.

"The joys of Hogwarts," she said wistfully. "_Merlin_..."

* * *

Tearing through the rabble of Club members as he made a beeline for the street, Harry took a peek at his watch.

_Two twenty-six... balls. _Was he destined to always cut it fine?

Ignoring the raspy warning of "No running in the foyer, boy!" he slid over the burgundy-gold Persian rug and through the crystal double-doors of the front entrance.

Armand's Walk was as packed as before; tourists wearing ring floats on their heads and flippers on their hands were everywhere. Were he not still on holiday, Draco would have fainted at the sight.

"Won't make it," he huffed and puffed as he sprinted down an alley towards the west bend of the Walk. It wouldn't be a matter of life and death if he was late, but it _would _be a matter of Hermione.

_"You won't make it by foot, that is."_

_Probably not. Should've brought my flying carpet, right?_

_"No, idiot! Your Apparating thing - you did it all the time last summer."_

Of course! Hermione mentioned the Anti-Disapparition Jinxes on the Castle in passing once (heaven forbid he confess to her that he'd tried it and failed the term before), but there was nothing stopping him now.

He pressed ahead, devoting his conscious to the image of the gaping cinder tunnel as he shifted his weight. To his glee, the scene before him dissolved...

... and the world collapsed.

Just as Harry thought he might never breathe again, his lungs returned to their normal size. He was in one piece, and the tunnel was on the other side of the street, so all was well.

Until he looked down.

His specially prepared Muggle clothes were caked in vomit; the accompanying smell and the soreness of his abdomen assaulted him only after he had registered the gruesome spectacle.

_"Someone needs practice, eh?"_

Scrunching his nose in disgust, Harry examined his surroundings. No one was watching. If they were, they would've recoiled at the sight of him.

_But what about the Trace?_

Holly chuffed. _"Way too much magic going on. Are you ignoring it or something?"_

That he was, because it was incredibly taxing to follow his 'real' senses at the same time, let alone when the Wandsong decided to override _them _on top of everything else. He was becoming rather good at dulling the 'wizlets', as he was still wont to call them at times, and the idea of visiting York (mainly to see Neville) sounded like less of a bad idea by the day.

In any case, if Holly thought that it was safe, it likely was.

"Fingers crossed, then," he said, his throat still hoarse. "_Scourgify._" A stream of sparkling suds lathered his front, and as they disappeared, the dried sick left with them.

No blaring sirens nor flashing lights appeared thereafter, but the subsequent "Hey!" in his ear made him squeal in panic. He whirled around, face to face with a wide-eyed Lisa Turpin who was draped in a noisy fuchsia raincoat.

He coughed. "All right, Lisa?"

She nodded, her eyes unwavering.

"Nice. Off to Stonehenge, yeah?"

Lisa crossed her arms. "You just Apparated. And you used your wand."

"Well, I..." He hitched a breath, scrambling to formulate an excuse. "It's... that would sort of depend on your definition of 'Apparition', wouldn't it... Right? Like, take Baruffio's classifications for exa- "

"You can't have a license yet. You're not allowed to Apparate without one. It's dangerous, Harry."

Harry groaned, balling his fists. "Oh whatever_, _Lisa! What, are you going to report me?"

Her pointed silence gave him the impression that she was at least considering the option, though a drawn out, somewhat uncertain "No," allayed his fears.

"But I will tell Hermione," she added with a triumphant grin.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face; he'd never hear the end of it if Hermione found out.

"Tell Hermione what?"

He swivelled on the spot to find an expectant Hermione and Padma.

_"Think of something! Post haste!"_

_You're not really helping by clogging up my head, are you?_

"I know!" he blurted out.

Hermione was agog.

"You know what?" asked Padma.

Harry gulped. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"I know," he started, pausing to glance at Lisa. "I... know everything!"

Hermione squeaked. "_Lisa!_"

"How could you?" said Padma, rounding on her fellow Ravenclaw. "It was supposed to be a surprise!"

Lisa was incredulous. "But I - no! I didn't tell him anything!"

"It's a complete disaster," moaned Hermione, head in hands. "What's Sir Albus going to say?"

Harry's momentary reprieve came to an abrupt halt. He didn't care about getting Lisa in trouble; she was more than ready to chuck him under the bus, even if it was the responsible thing to do. But what sort of surprise would his guardian have in store for him?

"What do you mean, 'Sir Albus'?"

Hermione winced. "Oh, bother... Your birthday party was all his idea, Harry! I'm so sorry."

The revelation itself would have sufficed to trip his conscience, but the sight of Hermione's crestfallen form all but gnawed at his insides. Birthday parties weren't unheard of back at St Cecilia's, but he had an inkling that Sir Albus and crew would have a comparative surplus of resources at their disposal.

_"Don't choke, idiot - don'tchokedon'tchokedon'tchoke- "_

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Hermione," he said, laying a firm hand on her shoulder. "I'm just glad that you're throwing one for me! Besides, she didn't let me in on any of the details- "

"I didn't tell you _anything!_"

"Hush, Lisa," said Padma, shooting the witch a warning glance with a finger pressed to her lips. "What part of keeping quiet don't you understand?"

Hermione let out a tired breath. "You're sure it hasn't spoiled anything for you, Harry?"

"Course not," he replied, chuckling. "I'd have been happy with a cake."

Without another word (save Lisa's occasional cries of "I didn't say anything!") the party joined the yet substantial queue. It would be another twenty minutes before they reached the front, culminating in a plain white surface at the end of the tunnel. Still and uniform, it was akin to a vacuum rather than an actual thing: the spot on a canvas where its painter lost interest.

"Non-magical zone ahead!" called the green-hatted witch from earlier in the day. "Get your tickets for a chest on the left!"

Her hulking colleague prowled the line, eyeing them all up and down.

"Number three-nine-eight," he grunted at Harry, shoving a silver key with a green tag into his open hand. "Hold onto it. Chests are over there."

Heading off in the direction of the wizard's stubby finger, Harry scanned the iron-barred racks in search of the corresponding lock. As he edged towards Chest 398, he felt a cold, wet thrum from Holly.

_Yes, you're going inside too._

_"But it can't be safe in there! Would those poxy iron bars stop you?" _

Without a wand, most likely. He might be able to twist them a little, or even turn one or two to marble if he had the time, but that would amount to nothing.

_I don't know why you're fussing... _

Harry grazed a palm against one of the bars as he succumbed to the ambient magic; the resulting flash of orange and stench of searing flesh caused him to jolt back in panic. Finding his hand unharmed, Harry sighed in relief.

_Told you. Surely you felt the Hex anyway?_

_"And I told _you, _idiot. There's too much magic around here."_

Ignoring his companion for the moment, Harry unlocked the cage and chest. Throwing in his satchel and patting his pocket to ensure he still had the Marauder's Map, he finally drew Holly from the waistband of his jeans.

_Keep my things safe, okay?_

_"That's what the chest is for. What's of use in there, anyway?"_

_Nothing much... just my Cratyloid, the Grimoire and essentially my whole life. Love you!_

_"No, wai- "_

But the indignant Hollygalleon was cut off as Harry snapped the chest shut, tapping it thrice after locking it for good luck. He rejoined the girls in time for the tiny witch to escort them to the White Spot.

"Remember," she barked at them, "no magic."

"You just took our wands," said Hermione.

The witch huffed, muttering to herself as she clicked her fingers at the barrier. "Bloody right, too! Kids with wands... bonkers..."

The membrane of the White Spot reacted violently to the witch's gesture. As it burped and rippled, Harry caught a glimpse of what he thought was a meadow beyond the curtain of hairline fractures.

"Here we go," said Hermione quietly, gripping Harry's hand and squeezing it tight.

* * *

"You consulted the Governor."

"Madam Marchbanks, yes. For the worth of advice, hers is invaluable."

"How true."

The clock struck sixteen. Its shrill, shallow chimes must have unnerved the Chief-wizard Smith somewhat if the twitch at the corner of his mouth were any indication.

"I assume you had words at length?" he eventually asked, upper lip curled as usual.

Albus inclined his head. "She offered her opinion on the matter - specifically, the provisions for Muggle-born entrants. She strongly suggested against it."

"I suppose the Board should consult her, then?"

"The Board should do whatever it feels is necessary," said Albus. "The dear Madam promised to relay her concerns to each of you in writing, so you might expect an owl fairly soon."

The old Wizard's brow throbbed as he set his jaw. "That I shall. We must ensure that all of Hogwarts' partners are well informed in regards to these measures. I'm sure you would agree."

Albus made to intimate that he did indeed, just as the whistles of the walls and the thrumming of the floor caught his attention.

He hummed. "We have overrun, Thaddeus. Apologies, I do tend to prattle on- "

"I beg your pardon?" blustered Smith, his chin flapping as he sat up straight. His answer came in three sharp, evenly spaced knocks at the entrance.

Albus smiled. "Yes - do come in!"

The double doors parted, revealing the form of a wizard who looked as if he had been carved from a piece of rotting bark. He hobbled forward at a surprising pace, peg after boot after staff, his straggly dark hair whipping about his gnarled face as a bulging blue eye flitted every which way but forward. Of most interest, however, was the fish bowl he carried under his other arm.

"Ah! Hexenmeister Moody - it has been far, _far _too long."

The misshapen wizard's face wrinkled to the right. "Could've waited, I reckon. Is that Smith over there? You being a naughty boy again, Thaddeus?"

Smith whirled around with such speed that his wobbling neck made an audible click. "_Excuse _me?"

"Our dear Wizard intends to depart," said Albus, navigating his desk to intercept his two guests. He lay a hand on Smith's back. "Your visit was much appreciated, Thaddeus. I am sure you'll update Lucius upon his return... ?"

With a stiff nod, Smith smoothed his robes and marched out of the office with nary a word.

"He _has _been a naughty boy, hasn't he?"

"His transgressions extend much further than the Chambers this time around, Alastor."

Alastor grunted, dumping his fish bowl on the desk. As the water sloshed around the rim, Albus caught a glimpse of a miniature dull-brown flatfish.

"I was not aware of your interest in ichthyology, old friend," he said, peering into the bowl's core. "Is this a new species?"

Alastor shrugged. "If you wish. Guess I'd like to call it 'Shrunken Flounder'."

Mouthing the term for himself, Albus found himself struck by a most ominous stray thought.

"Alastor? Where is Miss Tonks?"

Alastor's face broke (quite literally) into a satisfied grin. "Three guesses."

They stared at each other for a moment before Albus brandished his wand, Vanishing the bowl and returning the Auror Candidate to normal - save for the fact that she sat atop his desk.

"Habit I picked up from these young wands," said Alastor, chuckling under his breath at the pink-faced Tonks. "Barty's boy, actually."

"I did nothing to deserve this," said Tonks through gritted teeth as she climbed off of the desk. "A whole fortnight as an effing _fish_!"

Alastor made an unaffected noise. "You said you were a 'flounder'. I obliged."

The young witch emitted a furious squall before storming off.

"My deepest gratitude, Miss Tonks!" said Albus as the doors slammed behind her. He turned to Alastor once more, eyes pinched in disbelief. "Do you not yet tire of these games, old friend?"

"I teach," he said, resting his staff against his chair. "I teach and I catch. She had to learn not to spout her 'codename' or whatever it is before she ended up getting caught. What else would you have me do?"

"Indeed," half-laughed Albus, rubbing his eyes behind his spectacles. "And how is Dresden?"

"What do you want, Albus?" grumbled Alastor.

He regarded the battered wizard with a tired smile. "Come now, Ala- "

"What if I told you," said Alastor, his bulging eye slowing to a halt, "that I'm already working on it?"

"I'd be none too surprised," replied Albus, "but eternally grateful."

It was, after all, exactly why Albus had elected to retrieve him.

"Well," said Alastor, scratching behind his ear, "it ain't Pettigrew, like your _Prophet_'s saying."

Albus nodded. "We gathered as much."

"Did you now?"

Albus chuckled; encountering a gormless Alastor Moody was unheard of. The grizzled sorcerer soon schooled his expression though, a flurry of sparks hissing from his palm as he cracked his knuckles.

"But did you know he's from the 'other side', Albus?"

His own speculations drew him to the same conclusion: wholly against his will. However prepared he was, Albus' blood ran cold.

"Gellert," he whispered.

Alastor leaned forward, his mismatched eyes in perfect focus.

"They call him the Albatross."

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Thanks for reading, and thanks in advance for bearing with me!


	20. Barty Skips A Party

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **The wizarding world goes fancy dress, Sir Albus goes to York, and Neville has a heart-to-heart with Harry.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty - Barty Skips A Party**

_It was Merlin the Younger who often proclaimed "We fear not the breath of Heaven," during the bitter months leading towards the Winter Solstice, and in truth, the traditional worship of anthropomorphic deities is a concept found laughable to wizards of even a basic education. _

_The Wild holds claim to earth-shattering acts of God, ensnaring the minds of wizards and Muggles both... how could it not take physical form? Indeed, it presents at a state of constant flux in accordance with the influence of the soul - or indeed, a group of souls. So why not, then, can Woden appear to invoke his wrath despite being a creation of the Muggles?_

~ Leonore Christie, an excerpt from _The Will of the Wild _(1864)

* * *

"That was a bit of an anticlimax, wasn't it?"

"What were you expecting?"

"I dunno... some sort of magical maelstrom, you know? With warbly phasing noises and everything."

In stark contrast, the grand passage to the Muggle realm wholly consisted of walking through a gargantuan holey bed-sheet.

"Magic isn't all fun and games, Harry," said Lisa, steely eyed. "We're supposed to keep it secret."

Harry rolled his eyes. Muggle-Repelling Charms or no, he couldn't imagine anyone suddenly feeling the urge to explore an abandoned sewer pipe poking out of an equally derelict coach station.

"What about them?" he replied, pointing at the stone circle ahead with tourists and cameras (and an awestruck Padma) abound.

There were even more Charms at play there, and they made for an amusing scene: the Muggles kept a generous distance, and the steady flow of wizards touching the stones for good luck didn't seem to bother them much, if at all.

Lisa shrugged. "Muggles don't know any better. What they don't know won't hurt them, will it?"

The ignorant slight wasn't lost on Harry; he felt Hermione's eyes drill into his skull.

"She's your friend," he said from the side of his mouth.

And if he were honest, Hermione's choice in company sometimes astounded him. Lisa Turpin wasn't Malfoy by any stretch of the imagination but, through no fault of her own, her knowledge of Muggles was just as woeful. He probably wouldn't have given the friendship a second thought if wasn't for Lisa's finest moments of ignorance.

Indeed, were it even _Ron _who had suggested that Muggles could never be totally clean without water treated by Scouring Charms, the resultant punishment would far outweigh a mere beady-eyed glare.

"It's confirmed," Hermione said breathlessly after a while. "I'm definitely taking Astronomy!"

He jutted out a lip in thought. "What's it so useful for, again?"

Hermione swerved towards him, her hair whipping around her face.

"Are you _kidding_, Harry? You of all people should be taking it!"

"And why's that?"

She gripped his shoulders, firmly guiding him back to the view before pointing at phantom objects in the sky.

"It's Cardinals. Cardinals in the stars, Harry! What's out there informs how we live. The alignments, for example. You can observe patterns and paths between stars and planets and derive compound sets of Forms from them! It tells you why you need to grow certain plants at certain times, whether violent crimes are more likely to happen in a week or two weeks' time, and- "

"So it's Divination, is what you're saying," dead panned Harry.

Hermione looked him up and down, mouth contorted as if she'd downed a glass of lemon juice.

"It's probability," she said, dragging him down to the circle where a couple of witches in high-vis boiler suits feverishly chipped away at the weathered rocks. "Like Arithmancy. It doesn't claim to know the future, but it provides useful advice on how to best prepare for it. You should take both, actually. Ron's dad says they go very well with spell composition... "

Though he could have been called something of a science buff before Hogwarts - mostly in the effort to explain away his 'moments' - a numbers person Harry was not, and his relationship with magic confirmed it.

It was just like Miranda Goshawk once said: _"A myriad notes with which to sing an incantation. A world's worth of pigments with which to paint an Icon."_

"Harry? Are you listening to me?"

He nodded on impulse. "Of course. You were saying words. You're right - it's the best way to speak, hands down."

"To refer to thirteen seconds prior," she said, closing her eyes with a deep nasal breath, "we've been left to our own devices. Lisa's off with Padma gawking at the circles. We should go for ice-cream."

"Ice-cream? Alone?"

"Yes," she said, winking. "Just for ice-cream, and 'nothing else'."

Harry opened his mouth for a moment before shutting it to grin like an idiot. It was half the reason that they were there; Hollygalleon definitely would have chided him for forgetting.

"Ice cream it is," he replied, winking back as they trotted off in search of the shops.

As they did, however, Harry was forced to wage battle with his doubts. Yes, it was half the reason they were there: to share news concerning Pettigrew and the Marauder's Map. But for an escape to the Muggle world, they perhaps hadn't travelled far enough...

"Mr Potter?"

Harry was rooted to the spot, his hair standing on end. He would recognise that gong-like drone anywhere, but as he looked up, the man whose shiny brown shoes he had stepped on bore scarcely any resemblance to the wizardly Athair Gordon.

"Oh! Sorry Athair," he said, quickly drawing back.

"Not at all, child," he said with a slow nod as his gaze travelled the plains behind them. "You were preoccupied by the voice of the Wild - it is I who should apologise for interrupting you."

"Um... thank you, sir?" Harry shared a look with Hermione, twitches of amusement dancing across her lips.

"It is truth, not gratitude, child," the old wizard said, placing a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder. "The Wild favours you. You know this as well as I, do you not?"

Was he talking about the Wandsong? It couldn't be... that was all in his head, after all.

"You will find solace here," continued Gordon with a brief bow. "The feet of the Greater Merlin once trod this path - he left his mark in stone with the Gurg of the giants."

"Nice," said Harry as they watched the Druid glide off towards the horizon. "I wonder if that's how the 'Lesser Merlin' got the idea for the duelling range?"

Hermione chuffed. "He _was_ a Slytherin."

For Harry's first real foray into the Muggle world in almost a year, non-magical Amesbury was decidedly anything but. On the surface, it was a typical English country town for its size (excluding Stonehenge, of course), but even the dimmest magical Being would be at a loss to ignore the shops with signs dating back to the third century BCE, or the old ladies discussing underground troll-fights, or even the odd Trishula trident carved into a loose brick for a joke.

When the pair stumbled upon a cosy, rustic-looking cafe in the town centre, being served by an eight-foot-tall man in a tutu and a motorcycle helmet was the last thing they expected.

"I'm starting to think that this might have been a mistake," said Hermione, eyes darting across the cafe interior as her ice cream float began to melt.

"We chose the most sacred magical site in the country," said Harry with a hearty laugh. "It's not like we could go full Muggle, anyway."

"Second, actually."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"It's the second_ 'moste hallowed'_," said Hermione, smiling smugly as she sank into her side of the oaken booth. "Glastonbury trumps it. 'Avalon', Harry? It sounds as if you aren't trying as hard as you say you are when it comes to Theurgy."

Harry sniffed at that. He doubted that he would ever be in the mood to talk about the cause of his single _A _for the year.

"Onto more pressing matters," he said, whipping the Map out of his pocket and slamming it onto the table. "Turns out Pettigrew liked exploring more than we thought."

They sat in silence for a good while as Hermione marvelled at the artefact.

"I... how?" she said, her gaze still trained on the flighty images running across the parchment. "I knew you'd do it, but how did you get it to respond?"

"I didn't," he said with a grin, leaning in as he lowered his voice. "Remus Lupin did."

Hermione looked like a fish out of water. "You met _Lu- _"

"Harry? What are _you _doing here?"

Stifling a moan as he turned to his right, Harry's heart skipped a beat or three. Dressed in a pair of denim overalls, Tracey Davis was the most Muggle-looking Slytherin he had met to date. The walking shower curtain to her left was bound to turn heads, though.

Hermione burst out laughing. "What is - what _are_ y- oh my..."

Daphne Greengrass, who happened to be wearing said shower curtain, sneered at her.

"Budge up, Potter," she muttered, whipping the excess fabric around her sides as Harry grudgingly made space for her. "And I'll have you know, Granger, that this _Muggle_ travelling cloak is highly typical of current fashion trends."

"It isn't," said Hermione to Tracey, whose own wobbly smile indicated that she agreed.

"Fun summer, then?" said Harry brightly, nudging Daphne's arm. She pulled her puffy blue shower cap over her face with a mournful cry.

Tracey chuckled. "Her parents are away for business, so she's staying at mine for now. I only live over at Armand's, so obviously she wanted to see Stonehenge."

"And they let her through like that?" said Hermione mirthfully.

"What, through the big gate? No way," replied Tracey. "My Mum knows the owner here - we Flooed in from upstairs. Free Croaks on me, witches!"

"Someone's connected," said Harry with an upturned smile, which soon faltered. _Croaks? They serve frogs here?_

"Of course I'm connected, Harry!" crowed Tracy. "How many customers have I handed you, now?"

"Customers?" asked Hermione. "Is that where you got your extra money from, Harry?"

"Er..."

He turned to Tracey, who beamed at him. _No help there. _He took a peek at his right; Daphne had already discarded her shower cap, her eyes gleaming with morbid delight.

Harry sat up straight, bolstered by the staunch refusal to surrender his burgeoning homework outsourcing empire.

"Just notes," he lied, nodding slowly. "She kept bugging me, and her dad's really good at baking, so- "

"Harry!" she said, mouth agape. "You can't put a price on education!"

Tracey shrugged. "Hogwarts does."

"They didn't _always_\- " She groaned at the blank stares before her. "Hasn't anyone read _Hogwarts: A History_?"

"Enough about school," said Daphne quickly, wriggling in her seat in a presumed effort to make herself more comfortable. "I'm here to get _away _from it."

"What would you rather talk about, then?" asked Hermione.

"Prewett's killer, of course."

"What's there to talk about?" said Harry, casting a quick glance at Hermione. "There's a killer on the loose, and no one knows who it is."

"So the story goes," said Daphne silkily, resting her curtain-swaddled elbows on the table. "But you live with the Weasleys, right Granger?"

"I do. So?"

Daphne let out a derisive chortle. "_So? _So Weasley Senior is a Ministry Head, and he's married to a Prewett. _So, _you must know something, surely?"

"It's a criminal investigation," said Hermione, her voice tart. "Do you know how sensitive that information would be?"

Daphne threw her head back with a harrumph. "My parents tell me everything about work. Maybe they just don't trust you."

"Daphne!"

"It's okay, Tracey," said Hermione, laying a hand on the dark-skinned witch's arm. "I wish Mr Weasley had something a little more, you know, pedestrian for a job. Daphne's lucky to have parents who just have to move money around all day."

Daphne's lips went white. "You _dare- "_

"Stop," said Tracey firmly, silencing her irate friend with a poised finger. "Behave."

At that moment, Harry witnessed a most unbelievable feat of magic: Daphne Greengrass _wilted _at Tracey's command.

"So there's something bugging me," said Hermione, eyeing the tutu-wearing proprietor as he lumbered past them. "What is the cafe even doing on the Floo Network, of all things? This is a Muggle area!"

"These sorts of places are everywhere," said Daphne. "Thought you would know that, Granger."

"But the Statute... fireplace... the tutu!"

"All legal," said Tracey in a sing-song voice. "What the Muggles don't know... "

Hermione moaned into the table.

* * *

"Though I'd wish to avoid taking advantage of your kind nature, would you forgive an old man his failure in securing your birthday present?"

"Don't worry about it, Sir Albus. I mean, I can't thank you enough for the Cratyloid. We got it to project a plush mammoth at dinner last night."

"Glad to hear it! Still, I did have the tact to commission my dear friend Ambrosius. You wouldn't be averse to a triple chocolate fudge cake, at all?"

It was the best birthday ever. Sort of.

He awoke that morning to the smell of kippers and the sound of horns wafting past his door, hissing at the light sting of talons digging into his chest. To Harry's surprise, the letter hanging from Hedwig's beak came from none other than the notoriously evasive Professor Slughorn. Though he was appreciative of the accompanying eighty-four-Sickle Flourish and Blotts gift voucher, he was far more interested in the contents of the Slytherin Head's message.

_Dear Harry,_

_I acknowledge that we have not spoken before, though I can assure you that I have been keeping a keen eye on my star pupil's only child. I would like to congratulate you not only for your exemplary performance in this year's final examinations (not to mention making the Prophet two years in a row), but also and most importantly for turning twelve. Have a very happy birthday: you only have five more to wait for the Big One, as they say!_

_Should you find yourself ever needing an extra pair of ears, just ask. I usually sit for tea with good company in the Avery Room if you're ever inclined to join - look for the statue of a goblin wearing a fool's hat at the junction between the fourth floor and the Grand Staircase, and let it know it that you "came for the crackers" after School hours._

_Until we meet, Mr Potter!_

_Sincerely,_

_Professor H.E.F Slughorn, (AGMP), AgBCA_

_P.S. Duelling is a wonderful sport, but Hex-marks are ever so unsightly. I'd recommend Benedicta's Balm - go with Factor ab91._

Now that Remus was around, Harry wasn't as desperate to ask Slughorn about his mother. Even so, he couldn't ignore Dumbledore's account of their relationship, nor the newspaper clipping that Snape had given him. Lily Evans was a keen potioneer, and Slughorn called her his 'star pupil', so he was certainly going to take the Slytherin Head up on his offer. He would probably forgo the Balm, though.

For the first time since his arrival at Godric's Hollow, Harry was allowed to venture into the village - alongside Dumbledore, of course. Aside from the surrounding woodland, the scattered arc of thatched cottages was hardly striking in comparison to the few wizarding areas he had visited already, but he was glad that his guardian insisted on the walk nonetheless.

"My family and I," said Dumbledore as they strolled along the leafy path back to the Crucible, "we arrived here when I was about your age, you know. Our neighbours weren't the friendliest, though we could not have asked for kinder landlords in your grandparents."

"Mine, sir?"

"Oh yes." Dumbledore gave a gentle nod to the trees and beyond. "Do not forget that the Hollow is home to the Dumnonia Keys which the Potters were tasked to keep safe. Providing robust shelter for their subjects was the primary responsibility of the chieftains of old."

"And what now?" asked Harry, his own gaze following the steam rising from the house's basin. "Won't I have to do the same thing one day?"

The old wizard tilted his head. "In some sense, yes. The Keys bestow us with three lines of defence: to conceal us from the ignorant; to vanquish the thieves of land and luxury; to restore - however gradually - all soil razed through arts most evil. But whom, I wonder, would such power concern?"

"Those who wish harm, I guess," said Harry, pensive. "But that could be anyone, couldn't it?"

"It could, yes. But the crafters of the Keys were explicit in their language. They had to be, for what might become of the misguided child with a passing case of sticky fingers? The enemy of the Keys is the enemy of Dumnonia's collective spirit. You and I, Harry, and the witchfolk within its boundaries. It is your blood which flows through the Keys: as long as a Potter lives, we have naught to fear."

_"So it's your blood that's keeping them safe?" _whispered Holly, snorting. _"Good luck, idiot."_

_Oh, cheers. _Left with that sobering thought, Harry was denied his silence to make sense of it as a shout echoed from afar.

"He's 'ere! HAPPY BIR-"

"_Shh! _He isn't close enou- oh, whatever."

_"HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!"_

A rainbow of robes burst forth from all sides; before he could register the threat, Harry was hoisted underarm and grabbed by the ankles. After he was spun around for the fifth time, he decided that enough was enough.

"Okay you lot, let me down now... no, please, let me down!" They didn't listen. "Get _off_!"

What happened next was a little too eerie for his liking, Harry thought, as a crackling discharge coursed through his veins and startled his captors. The only difference was that, exactly one year ago, he _meant _to do it.

Suddenly, he fell amongst a round of yelps and swear words, and was thankful for the eternal bed of leaves that enclosed the Crucible's grounds.

"What gives, Harry?" snapped Ron from above him, face scrunched as he rubbed his hands against his robes.

"I did ask," he said, wincing a little as he nursed a crick in his shoulder. His buzzer trick - unplanned or otherwise - had become even more erratic after such a lengthy term of disuse. "But thanks though!"

He found the affair to be all the more eerie as he stood back up, meeting the radiant faces of Hermione, Seamus, Dean, Lisa, Padma and Cedric.

The ambush, the laughter, his magic...

_"Just like last year," _whispered Holly, prodding him with a soft, lukewarm pulse.

_How do you know that?_

_"I don't know, but... I'm sure they still remem-"_

"So!" said Ron, clapping his hands. "Cake?"

Harry found himself chuckling amid the chorus of groans. The exchange comforted him; some things would never change, and even as he stood hundreds of miles away from Oakwood, he was assured that they were doing just fine.

_"Even Alice?"_ teased Holly.

_Alice Presley... _

Stowing that thought away for the while, Harry looked over his shoulder to find Dumbledore speaking in hushed tones with a greying wizard in a dark pinstriped suit. The man's sudden appearance raised too many questions for Harry to care about at that moment, but his guardian soon caught his eye and welcomed him with a crooked grin.

"You seem quite unperturbed, Harry," he called. "What a fine display of mental fortitude and - dare I infer - preternatural wisdom?"

Harry winced as he strode over to them. "Was it that obvious, sir?"

Dumbledore laughed. "I had, as our Muggle friends say, a hunch."

"Happy Birthday, Mr Potter," said the suit-wearing wizard, briefly shaking Harry's hand. His tone of voice reminded Harry of the old wartime video narrators that they would listen to in his primary school History lessons: terse but nasal, broad sounds which only augmented his stony profile.

"Thank you, Mr... ?"

"Crouch. It's a pleasure," he said with a tight-lipped smile. "I knew your grandfather well."

Whether it was the immutable gaze or the military precision of his gestures, Harry felt his stomach turn at Crouch's presence.

He averted his line of sight to the man's moustache. "Sorry if I've interrupted- "

"By no means, Harry! Mr Crouch and I were simply discussing business to be taken care of first thing tomorrow morning," said Dumbledore with a pointed nod to Crouch, whose eyes narrowed. "Mind-numbing, rest assured."

"Very well," said Crouch, his lips all but disappearing. "Enjoy!" he added before he Disapparated to pastures unknown.

Dumbledore let out a soft, amused sort of breath. "I hoped that he might stay for cake," he said, looking back down at Harry, "if you didn't mind. Though we have quite the roster already, don't we?"

Harry laughed, counting his blessings that Crouch did have somewhere else to go.

"Yeah, everyone I would want here is..." He paused, suddenly struck by the absence of his round-faced friend. "Well, except Neville. Did anyone invite him?"

"Ah, young Master Longbottom," Dumbledore said while they watched Remus, McGonagall and Doge Conjure a picnic table and balloons in front of the house. "His grandmother wished me to confer their apologies - he suffered a bad reaction to a new specimen in his greenhouse."

Harry squirmed. "Poor Nev. After what he's told me about some of his other plants..."

* * *

_Wizards of the Grand Oak of Britannia_

_Beings of Interest 1979-86 p. 394_

**(Grd. III disclosure ONLY)**

**\- **_ALBATROSS(?): Wizard. Confirmed Trishula asset; implicated in CHROMAFLAG. Nationality (of unknown origin - affiliated with Eastern Republic since approx. 1978) ... Capable of concentrated Sorcery (_**y**_/n); Confirmed use of Unforgivable Curses (y/n/_**?**_)..._

The writing was on the wall. Or in his hands, rather.

Albus was loath to consider its ramifications, but denial was a vice which lay leagues beyond his nature - if only for the brutal education of his adolescence.

_Gellert._

And there it was; he had come full circle yet again. All roads, no matter the distance, led to Grindelwald: self-styled High Warlock of the East. He always had a penchant for extravagant names and titles, and it appeared that he had passed the sensibility on to at least one of his followers.

But given all the wounds wrought in the Wastes throughout those bloodstained years, what could prompt him to disrupt the calm thereafter? His servant, this 'Albatross', recited legends long cast into obscurity: words which were expressly hushed away from the common wizard's ear. The Triptych of Hades was among the most occult of names bestowed upon those coveted boasts of Death.

Boasts which Albus would never be inclined to forget, if only for the frigid, barbed squall which stirred at his side.

"For Wild's sake, Albus! Loan it if you must."

Albus tore his eyes from the parchment to address the sprightly old witch before him.

He gave her a sheepish smile. "Would you mind, Levina?" She sighed before turning on her heels, a crest of ruby robes trailing behind as her form was engulfed by the thick, omnipresent fog around them. The past few centuries had been unfailingly kind to Dame Levina; that she appeared not a day over seventy while officiating as chief archivist for the entire Ministry spoke volumes of her spirit.

He promptly left the smoky corridors of the Archives for the Atrium. Scarce of staff at the dead of night, the gilded sigils which danced across its peacock blue ceiling were free to cast their mottled reflections on the polished floors below.

Its emptiness let Albus' attention drift several borders east to Sumy, the nucleus of the Trishula's influence. Would they find respite in slumber tonight?

Knowing Gellert, he was sceptical.

He made for the gates at the far end of the hall, waving at the wondrous Fountain of Magical Brethren as he passed by. It was Iggy's favourite work of art, though he had threatened to Transfigure the wizard into a replica of the obnoxiously Muggle Oliver Cromwell after an infamous row with Abraxas Malfoy.

"I am tempted to follow your example, old friend," he mumbled aloud as the wrought golden grilles closed behind him.

**"Ministry of Magic, Level Two. Change here for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."**

In stark contrast to the reception area, Level Two was alive and well in a fluster of steel-blue robes and parchment missiles. There was no rest for the wicked, after all.

"Evening, Sir Albus!"

"How do you do, Sir Albus?"

He flashed cordial smiles at each occasional greeting, welcoming the fluttering sensation in his chest at recognising so many Old Hogs along the way. Its warmth was smothered with contempt as he reached the entrance to the Director's office, for Barty's legendary aura of gloom reigned supreme in this corridor.

The pair of broad ebony doors was flanked on the right by a single Patrol-witch at the reception desk. Her tousled auburn tresses and rumpled uniform suggested that she had indeed forsaken her weekend for the glory of their Grand Oak.

A noble cause, surely.

"Dear Madam Officer," said Albus softly. As if on command, the witch sat ramrod straight as her owlish eyes fell upon his own.

"Evening, Sir Albus," she said quickly. "What can I help you with?"

"Is the Director available?"

Her brow creased, a muffled noise parting her lips as she peered to her left.

"Well, he's alone... "

Her hand reached for the bell atop her desk, at which point the silver Hippogriff head above the door frame rumbled to life.

**"What is it?"**

The Patrol-witch chewed her lip, regarding Albus with wide hazel eyes.

She cleared her throat. "It's, ah - PO Spinnet, sir. I'm here with S-sir Albus?"

After a short pause, the Hippogriff gave them a tight nod. **"Bring him in."**

The doors swung free, and Spinnet gestured him passage. The square office ahead presented a clearer reflection of the Director than any mirror could possibly provide: the cobalt-coloured carpet was combed flat; not one tome lay askew in the polished mahogany bookcase to his right; and Barty himself, suffering from sleep deprivation though he likely was, appeared immaculate.

Albus hummed, eyeing a black bowler hat from the nearby coat rack as he took a seat.

"I do wonder if Cornelius is taking your recent attire to heart."

Barty grunted, not bothering to look up from his copy of the _Evening Stargazer. _"Mugglewear has its benefits - you have Elphias to thank. Festivities end early, did they?"

Albus chuckled. "Harry is but twelve, Barty! Let us give him a couple of years. How is your son?"

"Teaching at the Patrol School. He calls it duty; I call it a waste."

"You would say so?" said Albus, eyebrows raised.

Barty sniffed, turning a page of the _Stargazer_. "What need witchfolk have for armies is beyond me. I run a police force, Albus, not a wand factory."

"And yet," said Albus, crossing his legs as he leaned into his chair, "as far as our dear Minister is concerned, we are still at war."

A pause. Barty cast aside his reading glasses to look him in the eye. "What do you want, Albus?"

"I have here," he started as he removed a scroll from his outer robe, "a request signed as a Herald of the Order of Merlin to cease the pursuit of one Peter Pettigrew."

Barty stared at him for several moments. "You're deranged, man."

"True," mumbled Albus as he handed the scroll to Crouch. "Equally true is the conclusion that Pettigrew is not, in fact, our wizard."

"How darling." Barty re-sealed the scroll after skimming it once and set it aside. "And you are convinced _why_?"

Albus retreated to his robes once more, revealing the parchment he loaned minutes earlier.

"What do you remember of the CHROMAFLAG Initiative?"

Barty frowned, grasping for the parchment. "The Hungarian name escapes me. Pro-Trishula terrorists anywhere west of Vienna."

"Quite," replied Albus. "The perpetrator quoted Grindelwald's rhetoric in their manifesto. Bear in mind that none of our witnesses report hearing an accent, however mild. Language and dialect are difficult to mask with magic Barty, you know this."

"And?"

"The victims were nonetheless closely involved with the Eastern Republic, whether in favour or no."

Barty arched an eyebrow. "The barman? Henleigh?"

"An informant for the Investigations Office," said Albus, "as you are well aware. The Belgarum district has long been rife with anti-Muggle sentiments, and subversives have been known to frequent the area."

Barty audibly exhaled through his nostrils. "So we have a British dissident perpetrator who sought to silence an informant known only to the Office executives, while using a highly clandestine agent's cryptonym as convenient cover. In other words, you're suggesting that the High Warlock has planted a cell in my Department."

"It is plausible," said Albus, cocking his head to the side. "All it requires is a vested interest. You know as well as I: the Minister Bagnold did _not _authorise the overseas Bright Raids."

Barty said nothing, but the curl of his lip told novels worth.

"Do you still speak to Albert, Bartemius? Your former Head Auror?" He leaned forward, and the Director seethed. "Have you asked him to answer for Dobson? For Amhurst, and their detail?"

Neither dared break eye contact; Barty set his jaw, shoulders rising with the hastening of his breath.

"What of the Longbottoms, Alice and Frank? Are you simply content to mourn their so-called sacrifice? It does not sound like you, Bar- "

"_What_ is your_ point, _Albus?"

He sat up straight. "My point, Director Crouch, is that you have never been able to control Albert Runcorn, and even then, you have failed to oust him from your ranks. Does that not vex you?"

It did, undoubtedly; Barty snarled under his breath as the quill he held snapped in half.

Albus nodded in kind. "He shows little concern for the dangers of the Dark Arts, and yet he held that position for a half-decade. Even as Millicent fell from grace, the juggernaut that she was, Runcorn skipped sideways. The Auror Office still rankles from his misconduct, while he is prized by Pius and Cornelius both. Our crisis was not born from Ignatius' death, my friend. It stemmed from the continent, and your Department's misdeeds along its shores.

"I cannot prove that Runcorn is our 'Albatross'. But I am certain that he knows of it."

* * *

He was early again. Obscenely early.

Professor Doge was not to blame on this occasion, but Remus and the ancient wizard shared much in common. In fact, they shared so much in common that Harry and Remus were the only living things present on the Platform, save Hedwig.

And Holly. Sort of.

_"This is how kids get picked on, you know."_

_What are you talking about? There's no one here to say anything._

_"And that's why you arrive fashionably late, idiot! So that _you _can do the name-calling!"_

Harry groaned aloud, and Remus sniggered.

"I'll never get used to that," he said, running a hand through his silver-flecked hair.

Harry exhaled. "You and me both." He looked up at his whiskered guardian and smiled. "You're allowed to leave now, you know."

"I could," said Remus, grimacing.

"So go," Harry half-laughed. "The train's right here!"

Remus huffed with a rueful grin. "Fine. I can take a hint." He strode off to the barrier, but looked over his shoulder just before he hit the wall. "Christmas?"

Harry nodded eagerly. "Christmas."

With a wink and a salute, Remus was off. Hedwig nipped at Harry's finger.

"I know, girl," he said, heaving his trunk along with his free hand. "It's a good thing we travel light, isn't it?"

Remus' panic served them well, as they were once again spoilt for choice in compartments. Harry took the door closest to their place on the platform, so he was naturally surprised when he walked in on a statue-like Neville, eyes plastered to the window. Trevor sat atop the table, looking somewhat deflated.

"All right, Nev?" he said, flashing the blond wizard a smile as he was jerked out of his stupor. "Feeling better?"

Neville frowned for a moment, his eyes still unfocused before he took a short gasp for breath.

"Oh. Yeah, yeah - much better. Sorry 'bout that."

Harry snorted, shutting the door behind him. "It's not like you fell ill on purpose. Good summer?"

"Yeah, s'all right," replied Neville, stuffing his hands in his robe pockets. "Apart from that... you know. Did you get my- ?"

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, thanks for that."

Neville had a thing for countdowns, it appeared. His birthday present was _The Hundred Greatest Fizzles in the History of Magical Games_, which documented cock-ups that Harry would have thought impossible if not for the illustrations. Remus was right: backfiring magic _was _fun.

But still, Neville didn't smile. He hardly stirred at all.

"Did a lot of Duelling practice," said Harry, waving an imaginary Holly in his wand hand (much to its annoyance, if the sting at his thigh was any indication), "with Cedric and Bones. She's not a bad laugh, you know."

Neville's mouth twitched slightly. "Yeah, she isn't, is she?"

Other than the occasional croak from Trevor, the next few minutes were spent bereft of sound, and Harry couldn't have thanked Neville more for breaking the silence when he did.

"Can I... can I ask you a question, mate?"

"Sure, what's up?"

Neville hunched his shoulders, casting a furtive glance at the compartment door. "Just between us though, yeah?"

"Course." Despite the platform being just as empty as it was before Harry got on the train, Neville looked no less assured.

_"You know what to do, Harry. Come on, off your arse!"_

Harry clicked his tongue as he drew Hollygalleon from his robes. "Tell you what - I can make sure no one tries to get in?"

Neville's gaze lingered on the door, so Harry took it as his cue. He opened it just enough to reach the handle on the other side, running the tip of his wand along the surface.

_Hope this works..._

_"Colloporto pultis."_

The ensuing white flash satisfied them both; Neville withdrew a breath as Harry shut the door once more.

Harry nodded tightly. "Right. Go."

Neville took another deep breath.

"Okay, right," he started, his hands fumbling around for his warty companion. "Do you, I mean - d-do you think... sorry mate, this is really hard."

"It's okay, Nev. On your own time, yeah?"

He inclined his head, gulping as he met Harry's eyes for the first time that day.

"Cool... It's... well. You lived with Muggles, right?"

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Um. Yeah. I guess I'm one of them, when you get down to it."

Neville seemed to bristle at that. "But you're not, are you? You're a wizard. The best one in our year."

Harry coughed. "Well I don't know about that - but go on, what's up?"

"Well, it's..." Neville winced. "I mean - what do _you _think of them, Harry? On the whole, like."

Harry puffed at that, scratching the back of his head. "Cor. Never thought about it, really. They're just like us, right? You get your nice ones, and some bad ones, but they're just, you know, people. Boring, I guess?"

Neville took a while to ponder the answer before he turned to the window again. "Yeah," he said with a soft laugh. "I guess they are."

They fell quiet again, out of contentment as opposed to tension. Nonetheless, the conversation had thrown Harry off-balance, since Neville had never shown any inclination of disliking Muggles.

_"Are you sure about that?"_

Harry was allowed no time to ponder, as a _thud _followed by a whimper at the door caught his attention instead.

He glanced at Neville. "Did that sound like... ?"

Neville's brow furrowed for a moment, his eyes shooting open soon after. The cartoonish grin that followed was a relief at the very least.

They marched over, the counter-charm on Harry's lips just before he felt a hand gently brush him aside.

Neville winked. "Allow me."

With a flourish and a whisper (which left Harry feeling rather proud of his dorm mate) the surrender of the compartment door confirmed Harry's suspicions.

"Need a hand there, Malfoy?" he asked, Neville sniggering beside him.

The Slytherin swatted his hand away, pink-faced. "I do _not. _Getting your jollies from tormenting your betters now, Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Reckon you can ask them for me?"

Neither the Hex nor the humiliation thereafter was enough to keep Malfoy at bay, which didn't surprise Harry in the slightest. Not five minutes had passed before he had re-assumed his position as Hogwarts' premier correspondent.

"It's all kicking off this year," he said, watching Harry and Neville haul his trunk onto the luggage rack. "My Aunt Bella's going to be around quite a bit. You know, giving us the odd workshop at the Club and that."

It was in the paper over the summer, but Harry tried to pay it little mind. If Bella Yaxley was anything like her daughter - as the odd duel he watched implied - giving her a wide berth was probably his best bet.

Malfoy sighed with triumph. "She's talking about changes, big ones - her and Mother haven't stopped talking about it. And Father too, actually. They've got big plans for Hogwarts, you'll see."

"We've only been at Hogwarts a year, now," said Harry, arching an eyebrow. "It's not like we'll notice anything, is it?"

Malfoy tutted. "_You'll see_, Potter. Obviously you two are far more out of the loop than I thought."

"Go on then," said Neville, smirking as he rested his boots on the table. "I'll call your bluff."

Malfoy sneered; whether it was at the challenge or Neville's manners, Harry wasn't sure.

"Fine," said Malfoy tersely, wearing a sour smile to match Neville's. "The Ministry's ramping things up. They've got trolls and a pair of dragons posted at Hogsmeade. For the Wormtail Killer, most likely."

After a long pause, Neville turned to Harry. "That wasn't even slightly funny."

"No," said Harry, slumping into his seat. "Just stupid."

"It's true!" said Malfoy, mouth agape. "I overheard Mother and Father just last week- "

"So I'm thinking about trying for the team this year," muttered Neville, running a hand through his hair as he looked out of the window. The view of the platform gradually reeled off to make way for the tunnel.

"Wicked!" said Harry, ignoring Malfoy's petulant stare. "I'll help you practise for it, of course."

Neville chuckled. "Really? I've never even seen you on a broom, mate."

"Quidditch?" said Harry and Malfoy in unison.

* * *

"I - am - exhausted! And full. Good effort, boys. Good effort."

Dean gave Harry a sidelong glance. "And he says _you'll _blow up one day."

The Welcoming Feast had been a banquet fit for the Gurg of the giants, and Ron was in rare form.

"He's a growing lad, Ron is," said Seamus, hanging up a poster of Gwenog Jones above his bed. "Might even be bigger than Hagrid next year!"

"Difference is, he won't chase Harry round the Castle for stepping in his manure," added Dean.

"Why did that even matter anyway?" grumbled Harry, flipping the latch on his trunk.

Ron chuffed. "Since when do giants need a reason to hate anyone?"

Despite the fact that he had met just one giant so far (and a half-giant, at that) Harry found it hard to disagree, and the murmurs that followed assured him that the feeling was mutual among the rest of his dorm mates. Sir Albus' list of restricted areas had expanded this year, and Mr Hagrid's field was among them. The gamekeeper, all rosy cheeks and pearly grins, looked satisfied by the news, but Harry was sceptical as to how long that would last.

"Mate," groaned Neville as Harry crept into bed with the Grimoire. "Lessons start next week. Our Almanacs are still running on last year, for Wild's sake!"

Harry didn't bother looking up. "It helps me sleep."

"Can't fault that," said Ron. The others laughed.

For all of Neville's protestations, the Gryffindor boys soon surrendered to a lull, one by one. By the stroke of ten, only Harry was left, guided only by a waning beam from the moon as he called on Hollygalleon's light under his bedsheets.

As the current holder of the Grimoire, it dawned on Harry that he should leave imprints of his own like his ancestors before him. Given his limited life experience, his scribblings rarely involved more than that of a typical diary entry, though he occasionally wrote of the Muggle world when he missed it most.

_I may never see them again. They might not even care. Is it really better off that way, like Remus said?_

The words stung, more so for the fact that they were his own.

_They would have loved to come here. Especially Phil. The Map would be in way better hands with him. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." I think it would be a good quote for his headstone._

_._

_.._

_..._

_Harry?_

_"Looks like you ticked one of 'em off," _whispered Hollygalleon, sniggering.

_Sorry. I wrote 'Phil', didn't I? Apologies, dear Wizard!_

_._

_.._

_..._

_No. It's James Charlus Potter. You're my son, Harry._

Harry gasped, covering his mouth on reflex as Ron let out a moan which sounded awfully like "Faaaaay..."

What did he dare write next? His disbelief? His frustrations? Either would be redundant, for 'James' would already know. The Grimoire learned from its readers through ink and blood, just as Harry learned from its fraying leaves.

_Why didn't you answer your name? Why now?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_The password: you found it against all odds. I had to be careful. I'm so sorry, Harry._

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Thanks for reading, all! The next one should be out in about another month or so. Cheers to all who reviewed last chapter. Do drop a PM if there's anything specific (or spoilerific) you want to ask. 'Til next time :)

An addendum: to those who might be interested, I've added a short letter to the opening of Chapter One. It's not spoilerific as such, but it's fluff that adds extra conflict to the overarching war, so if that's your thing, feel free to check it out. Laters!


	21. Charity Holds A Rally

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Albus tends to the garden, Hermione receives a summons, and Harry indulges in poetry.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One - Charity Holds A Rally  
**

_"The common adage of 'cack hand, spoilt spark' is often attributed to Dexter the Drab, a Branch-Priest druid of English stock who lived in the sixth century. The sentiment in fact harkens even as far as the Middle Kingdom of Egypt, where Seers were executed if a divining eagle were to rest on one's left shoulder. The true reasoning behind this taboo remains a mystery, though it is undoubtedly exacerbated by the disproportionate number of Dark wizards who favour this hand, particularly for spellcasting. Sorcerers who observe the so-called Left-Hand Path have been said to call forth unimaginable forces of terror, not exclusive to the creation of the first Dementors, the mastery of Fiendfyre and even power over the bolts of Jove._

_Needless to say, no such eyewitnesses are available to support these claims._

~ Velma Ross, _The Other Face of Janus (1722)_

* * *

The atmosphere was still, stale... frigid. The likes of Death Itself may have baulked at the idea of a night-time stroll in such conditions.

Albus raised two fingers, brushing them against the stagnant ether in a quick circular motion. The act obliged him a rush of heat where robes met flesh, but the chill to his core remained unabated.

_They have arrived, then. _

He drew his wand. _"Expecto Patronum."_

Where gnarled arms of willow and birch had earlier denied him all but the thinnest glimmers of moonlight, a brilliant silver phoenix now perched on a branch beside Albus, illuminating the immediate path and soothing him with its nurturing warmth.

He stepped further into the body of the Dark Forest, the backdrop of his Castle's lawns soon replaced by those long, sable forks of sturdy bark. Even when bolstered by the comfort of his radiant guardian, the surrounding dearth of heat was yet ever present. He empathised with the creatures of the wood, for not a Bowtruckle nor Bugbear dared make themselves known.

"What have you done, Cornelius?" he said aloud, absently wary that in spite of the unearthly cold, his breath flowed still unseen.

With no warning, Albus felt a shift in the air - not unlike a gong struck by a mallet.

His words triggered a Babble-Bursting Jinx. _Well hidden, at that._

"Who goes there?" cried a high, harsh voice not moments later. Its demand was tempered by an ill-concealed tremble of shaken confidence, but Albus readily complied, replacing his wand as his Patronus surrendered to the shadows.

He turned in its direction, palms raised. "It is only I, Miss Tonks. How goes the song?"

Encroaching wandlight revealed the form of his former student, her heart-shaped face now crowned by a shock of hair whiter than his own.

"Boring really," she replied with a nervous titter, extinguishing her wand. "Sorry 'bout that, 'Bishop'. I thought I recognised your phoenix, but the Wild knows what this place can do to your head."

Albus smiled. "No doubt. I assume that Auror Scrimgeour sent you along?"

"He said it would 'prep' me for the next stage of the program." She huffed. "He sent Nichols to the Patrol School like all the other Law recruits, though."

Albus laid a hand on her shoulder. "He sees promise, Nymphadora. Make what you will of the opportunity. I must say, it is a pleasant surprise to have you with us for a while longer. Where is Kingsley?"

"Hogsmeade way," she said, pointing south. "He reckons our Albatross wouldn't dare come closer than that." Albus hummed in agreement.

"He's with _them_," added Tonks.

The chill prickled at his skin once more. "How many?"

"Two," she said, looking skyward. "For now."

Albus inhaled, nodding as he digested 'a dozen by June's end'. "Take great care, Miss Tonks."

"We're pretty much guarding _them_ at this point," she said archly. "Aurors or not, we're only two wands. All it'll take is a silly firstie to stray too close to the wrong end of the Lake. Dementors don't see trees: they smell souls."

That they did; the last-minute change to the security detail deeply troubled Albus, for the Hogsmeade ward was home to hundreds of children throughout most of the year. Even for a wizard as skilled as Iggy's killer, the employment of such odious creatures was hardly a light touch.

The screeches of a solitary owl echoed far away from the surrounding thickets. They gave Albus an unpleasant stir but, coupled with the lingering despair that just one Dementor could leave in its wake, it was no more than a sign that his attention was better spent on the Castle proper.

"I believe that I have overstayed my welcome," he said, eliciting a dark chuckle from the young witch. "Again, Miss Tonks - do take care."

She nodded, flourishing her wand from which a ghostly Jack rabbit sprang forth. It pranced a lap where Albus stood before falling into place at the Auror Candidate's heels.

"Same to you, Sir Albus."

* * *

"It's gone! It's - it's _gone!_"

The first shriek jolted Harry awake in an instant. He was enjoying a lakeside stroll with Hedwig a mere minute earlier, until Hollygalleon had to go and comment about how boring it was before magicking Tracey Davis out of the blue, thereby making the whole affair awkward because Harry didn't know how to get rid of her. As such, he found himself oddly thankful for Neville's outburst.

Ron, in contrast, did not.

"Keep it down or _toss off!_" he shouted, hurling his pillow in the blond wizard's direction. Then he paused for a moment, face impassive.

"Wait a sec. Chuck it back, would you?"

Neville ignored him, flinging the contents of his trunk across the room in a one-wizard race to the bottom.

"I don't believe it... don't _fucking _believe it..."

"_Oi_," yawned Seamus, rising feebly from his covers. "What's your beef, Nev?"

Neville's head bobbed up, staring first at Seamus, then his trunk, and finally at the space between them - which was occupied by the window, similarly wide open.

"Why's the window not shut?"

Seamus yawned again. "It was bleedin' hot last night. Did you not notice?"

Neville cursed, as did Dean, roughly tugging his sheets over his face. Harry surreptitiously peered to his right, confirming that Ron had forgone his pillow and followed suit.

_"Nothin' for it, ah?" _said Hollygalleon, giggling from inside his drawer.

Harry sighed, launching himself out of bed. "What've you lost, Nev?"

"Nothing! I _know _where I left it!"

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, but what is it?"

Neville slammed the trunk shut with yet another curse, storming past Harry for the shorter, sandy-haired wizard next to the window.

"Do you _know_ what you've done?" he hissed at Seamus, balling his fists. "Do you actually _f- " _

Neville ran his hands through his hair with a strangled cry. Harry shared a glance with Seamus, who looked as bewildered as he felt.

"She's gonna kill me," he mumbled, stumbling back to his own four-poster with his head hung low. "Nana's - all's those pages... _thousands_..."

Harry frowned at him. "You what?"

Head in hands, Neville had ears for naught but his own pity. That didn't matter - Harry was almost certain of it now.

_His diary. _Neville too had a Grimoire.

* * *

He hadn't written in his own for a good while, not since the event following Feast Night. It was infuriating to think that after all that time, Harry's father hid himself behind a schoolboy's password under the pretence of "being careful".

Was his blood not enough?

Harry thought of Remus. Maybe his father intended for all of this - for one of his loyal friends to relay the message so that his son could claim his birthright - but that made no sense. Remus made no mention of the Grimoire so far, and Harry had seen his handwriting. Compared to the note that had first accompanied the tome, his was too plain, and too print-like.

And as much as Harry had successfully abstained from its pages during the first couple of weeks, he still craved closure. Despite all that he had learned about magic, his family, _himself,_ even... between his father's secrets and the killer of Ron's uncle, he was entirely unsure of his place in this world.

Why couldn't he muster the courage to find out?

His wand was surprisingly patient with him. _"He was only trying to protect you, surely - he's your father, Harry!" _

Harry initially disregarded its arguments as general nosiness, but as the middle of the month drew near, he was fast reaching his breaking point.

_"Talk to him," _whispered Hollygalleon in the Library one evening. _"You're doing yourself more harm by putting it off!"_

Harry peeped over his Latin exercise to the stack of books in front of him, the weathered journal leaning against them. Since Neville's incident, he had made sure to carry it everywhere.

_"If not now, then when?"_

When several seconds of tapping his quill against smudged parchment bore no fruit, Harry set his homework aside and reached for the Grimoire.

_James Charlus Potter._

_._

_.._

_..._

_Hello, Harry._

The password had been waived this time around. Harry briefly wondered if the book was capable of empathy.

_I'm ready for answers._

_._

_.._

_No doubt. What do you want to know?_

Truth be told, he was unnerved by James' replies, finding even his prior introduction terse and frank in comparison to his grandfather's narrative. He took a deep breath before putting nib to parchment, gently prodded by a warm thrum from Holly at his side.

_Why the password? What were you hiding from?_

_._

_.._

_Thieves. The Grimoire is far from perfect. Blood from a Potter is all that is necessary. Blood is easily stolen, Harry. You might be able to use your thumb as you please, but a drop of your blood will still suffice. It's how the Grimoire works._

Harry hitched a breath. Was he truly powerless in protecting it, then? Not to be deterred, however, he pressed ahead.

_What would a thief want from you?_

_._

_I'm a Potter, Harry. We have more than a few trade secrets. I'm sure that you're upset with me, but rest assured that many of the names in here would have enjoyed the same protections at one point in time for similar reasons. At least I can rest assured that I'm in your hands, now. Before we go any further, can I ask who gave you the password?_

_._

_Remus. It wasn't intentional. He showed me the Marauder's Map._

_._

_.._

_Not Sirius?_

As Harry's stomach was wracked with guilt, he had to remind himself that his father was dead.

.

_I'm sorry, Dad. Sirius Black is missing._

_._

_.._

_..._

_Do you know who Peter Pettigrew is? Is he alive?  
_

_._

_Yes and yes. What does that mean?  
_

_._

_.._

_He's looking for you, Harry._

_"Shit... I _told _you, idiot!"_

Harry bit down on his cheek, hard. Remus was so certain... it couldn't be true.

_He isn't bad. Remus said so._

_._

_I don't know what he is, Harry, but I know that I'm dead. We see everything that you write, remember?_

_._

_What does you being dead have to do with Pettigrew?_

_.  
_

_Peter was supposed to keep us safe. If we're dead, he failed, and if he's alive, then he gave us away.  
_

Harry was torn. How had it come to this - choosing between the words of a werewolf and a talking book (written by a dead man, at that)? Memories, brief yet vivid, littered his conscious as reels of shredded film: Sir Albus announcing Prewett's death, the Pettigrew articles, the manifesto on Doge's Wireless...

The night Hermione sat him down.

_He's been here already._

He must have! In a perfectly unassuming disguise, Pettigrew - _Wormtail, _perhaps - confronted Pringle in hopes of... what else?

_"The Map!" _gasped Hollygalleon. _"But what for?"_

_I can hazard a guess. _It seemed pointless at first, what with all of Prewett's Weasley relatives being in Gryffindor, but a bloodbath wasn't exactly Wormtail's style, was it? Not at all; with the help of the Map, he could track them... isolate them at their most vulnerable...

Harry wrestled with trembling fingers before scrawling his reply.

_What does he want from me?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_If you really want to know, ask Albus for the Three Brothers. He will understand.  
_

_._

_You won't tell me anything else? Why even bother with the password, then?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_.._

_._

_Because no matter how many Curses you throw at this book, a password is still a password._

_"Wow," _breathed Hollygalleon. _"What a tosser."_

Harry slammed the Grimoire shut, swearing as he launched it at the pile of textbooks before him.

"Potter!" hissed Madam Pince from around the corner. "Control yourself! Five points from Gryffindor."

_Take a hundred, for all I care._

* * *

The sun's appearances were fast waning, while the Almanacs were filled anew: lessons were in full session. Even at the base of the North Tower, one could hear chalk skating over slate in a pattern of fervent loops and screeches.

"The Wild... is... godhead. The Wild is... enlightenment and... the Wild - is - ruin!"

Madam Pope was authority.

Madam Pope was wisdom.

But above all, Madam Pope was _fun._

After the class' introduction to rites and ceremony in Professor Veness, Hermione would be the first to confess that her interest in Theurgy had dwindled to browning embers by the end of last year. The department Mistress' theatrics - and her incense - only served to obfuscate the already ill-defined subject, and Hermione, more than anyone else she knew, found fun to be an impossible goal if she had no idea what she was doing.

It was for this reason that Madam Pope's approach set her passion aflame once again.

"Gods, angels, daemons and fae: it takes magic to appease magic," said Pope, one hand gesticulating after the other. "And our magics - the arts of witchcraft and wizardry - work on principles. It is not enough to hold _faith_, or to _feel_ the magic, or even to possess the voice of a Celestina Warbeck or Ligeia Nightingale. _Rituals need rules. _Now, let us list - in order of use - the apparatus required to perform the Second Boon of Raphael, beginning with a three-inch-long string of wool, preferably vermilion in colour..."

"We didn't have to do this much work last year," groused Ron, unscrewing his inkwell for what was likely the first time since it was purchased.

"Those were petty rituals," Hermione whispered back, eyes front. "Complex ones need equipment. Have you been living under a rock or something?"

Ron's lip curled a little. "Feels like it. Can't get any kip since Nev started sleep-talking at nigh-"

"Mister Weasley," said Pope, who happened to be standing right in front of them, gold-rimmed spectacles teetered on the edge of her especially long nose. "How are we doing on this fine autumn afternoon?"

He grimaced. "Er, you know... just listening to everything you say, and that."

Pope hummed appreciatively. "_And that _indeed. Tell me, Mister Weasley - would you care to name the element after the goat skin drum?"

Ron glanced at Hermione; she averted her eyes. She knew very well that Ron could lip-read, but to do in plain sight was absurd.

Not that she expected any less from him.

"Right," twittered Pope with a smug smile. "Will that be ten points or detention, then?"

The other Gryffindors shouted out their judgements in panic, though not for long: a sharp look from Pope soon quelled their tongues.

"Detention, Miss," mumbled Ron, his brow marred with scorn as he turned to the rest of his House.

"Friday evening it is," said Pope brightly, striding back to the blackboard. "Now if we can- "

Three short raps at the door stopped the Madam in her tracks, her heel snapping at the floor with a dissatisfied _clack_.

She sighed. "Yes?"

The door wailed a mournful creak once it was prised open, as the tiny mousy-haired Gryffindor behind it was all too aware.

"Oh! S-sorry, I didn't know it would be so loud..."

Madam Pope's face softened - almost pitifully so - upon seeing the child.

"No no, that's all right, dear," she said, flashing a sheepish smile. "How might we be of assistance?"

"Er, the ah, Deputy Head needs..." His brows pinched together as he scanned a torn piece of parchment. "Her, um, _Hermain_? N-no, wait... _Her_meeown_\- _"

"That's me," said Hermione tersely, standing up as she culled the urge to flare her nostrils.

_It's not his fault. It's _not _his fault..._

Ron leaned back, wide-eyed and wry-mouthed.

"All right, _Herman," _he stage-murmured, eliciting muffled giggles from the neighbouring desks.

Promising herself that she would deal with Ron later, Hermione quietly excused herself and marched over to the elfin Gryffindor, who proceeded to scramble down the corridor at a breakneck pace.

"Hey, stop - _oi,_" she panted after the boy, reining him back by grabbing the nape of his shirt. "No running in the corridors!"

He turned to face her, mortified. "S-sorry! Please don't tell - it's just Professor McGonagall said to be quick about it, and I thought I was already late because everyone else got their notes at breakfast, and I only found out because she pulled me out of Sorcery just after lunch, and- "

"It's only down the hall," said Hermione, fixing him with a hard stare. "You got into _Hogwarts_, didn't you? Use some sense."

His set his skittish gaze downward, cheeks tinged with red splotches as his lip began to quiver. Hermione tutted under her breath, gently pushing him forward in pursuit of Gryffindor Tower.

The door to Professor McGonagall's office was firmly shut; a rarity during waking hours to be sure, but it appeared to corroborate the boy's claims of the House Head's urgency.

Hermione gave the door a firm knock, stifling a wince when it was jerked back by an inch or two. She could make out a single hazel eye from the crevice between board and frame.

"Granger? Creevey?"

She nodded, looking over her shoulder with faint interest. Ron's little sister, Ginny, mentioned a friend by the same name the other day.

The eye blinked. "Get inside, quick."

The door parted further, and Hermione was bustled in by Creevey (which was no mean feat, considering that he was a few inches shorter). The same hazel eyes, belonging to a female Ravenclaw Prefect, followed her all the way past the threshold.

It was a tight fit; stools were placed wherever shelves and bookcases were not, a couple of the older students electing to stand instead. Professor McGonagall's study was a far cry from spacious, but a cursory search of the room left no doubt that at least fifty students were crammed inside it.

McGonagall stood behind her desk, stoic. Another staff member - a willowy witch whom Hermione vaguely recognised - leaned against it, her eyes slightly drawn as she gazed through the far-side window.

"That's all of them, then," she said with a soft exhale, wheeling her arms as she pushed off of the desk. "You doing the honours, Minnie?"

The Deputy Headmistress' brow hardened for less than a blink, but Hermione caught it regardless.

"A pleasure, _Professor_ Burbage," replied McGonagall, ambling away at a sedate pace. She paused at the centre of the office, after taking the time to look each and every occupant in the eye. Hers were fraught with something Hermione had seen only once before, at the mention of Harry's father.

Worry.

"Before I say anything else," she said, hands intertwining, "I would wish to thank you all. The attendance of every student we receive at this School is something cherished, for all the years you read here add to this Castle's history. I urge you to never forget that."

Hermione's stomach was unsettled, her ears pounding with blood. She took another look around the room, finding her suspicions confirmed: there was Sally-Anne to the right, Kevin Entwhistle near the front, Justin by the window... Muggle-borns, all of them.

"You're sending us away, aren't you?" spat a voice behind her. "My family said this would happen."

"What?" cried another. "Where? How can they?"

The outbursts only ignited a blaze of others as they looked around the office, bereft of old blood as it was. Once McGonagall drew her wand, however, the chaos subsided with immediate effect.

"_No_-_one _is going _anywhere,"_ she said, lips thin as she replaced it. "You have every right to be here, and as long as your names are penned in our ledgers, this is not subject to change.

"I cannot - will not - lie to you. Forces beyond our control seek to change our School in ways that the majority of staff find unacceptable. Thanks to positive influences in the Ministry among other bodies of authority, we have been offered life-lines, but there is still work to be done. As such, we have set ourselves a target. Every single pupil in this office, whether they are sitting external examinations this year or not, will aspire to a four _E_-grade average by the end of the academic year."

Kevin sniffed at that.

McGonagall spun toward him. "Amused, Entwhistle?"

"Well er, no," he said, his mouth moving a ways past those three syllables. "B-but four _E_s isn't exactly hard, is it? Madam."

"For you, maybe not," she said, shoulders slackening as she occupied Professor Burbage's former place on the edge of the desk. "That it is a standard attained by less than a third of pupils might suggest otherwise. Were I to tell you that said _E_s would be attained in Latin, Cardinals, Sorcery and Artificing- "

"That's crazy!"

"We've got more chance of winning the Quidditch this year!"

"The _Cannons _have more of a chance- "

_Crack._

"I would be the first," said McGonagall, lowering her wand, "to argue that you underestimate yourselves. Before me you stand fifty-eight strong - all chosen, all hand-picked. So chosen because you have the _spark _to perform our arts with the best wands - gravers, runcibles_ -_ in the country. But the target is just that. Your attendance here is _not _conditional."

"What happens if we don't meet it?" asked Hermione. It was the question on everyone else's lips, after all. What could be worse than being removed from the School?

McGonagall chewed her lip for a moment; it took what felt like an eternity for her to meet Hermione's gaze.

"It is possible that from next year onwards... we are to teach Muggle-borns separately."

There was no outrage this time. No cries of indignation, nor exclamations of betrayal. The pupils, Hermione included, remained silent.

Numb. Sparkless.

"Obviously you agree," said Professor Burbage suddenly, "that's not an option. And that's why we've come up with this plan. If you all do your best in the exams, in your extra-curriculars and anything else that comes your way, we'll have a wicked strong defence against them. You don't _have_ to hit all those targets, but make them your goal. Show them how wrong they are.

"Now this is how it'll work." She Summoned a scroll from the table, unfurling it as she scanned the room. "We're assigning study groups, workshops - the lot. Our biggest weapon, though, is you. Upper School are going to mentor the kiddies, and you're all going to look out for each other this year. It's not a gang, and it's not a club. We just want you to do your best, and the best way to do that is sticking together. Who's with me?"

No one answered.

* * *

"All right, Harry - you're doing just fine. Last one, now."

Kingsley stalked over to the final chest, removing a scratched metallic tin the size of a paint can. He set it before Harry, slowly edging away with a Cheshire grin.

He resumed his place next to Dumbledore, at the desk of the Headmaster's office. Harry was convinced that they knew just how nerve-wracking their presence was.

Still, they smiled.

He focused his attention on the tin, and was surprised when he encountered... _nothing._

More concerning was the fact that, unlike the feeling of nothingness that he felt near Diagon Alley's entrance, there simply _was_ nothing here. Harry could _hear_ magic now, _taste _it. But there was nothing to be experienced here.

Even the stubbornness in the face of discovery was absent. No conviction to protect, no fear at the prospect of being caught. A concealment-type Charm, maybe? He'd read about those - was he really looking at a teapot instead? Or maybe it was a Switching Spell...

"No," he said aloud.

Kingsley chuckled. "No _what, _Harry?"

It was neither. He tried to listen, but the tin had nothing to say. No silver-tongued words of misdirection, no woeful laments of what it once was.

"There's nothing." He looked up at them, and laughed. "_Nothing. _There aren't any spells on it at all, right?"

The two older wizards shared a look and, by their identical grins, seemed thoroughly pleased.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," said Dumbledore, wandering over, "I've no idea why I'm still surprised. Well done."

Harry faced Kingsley, bemused.

"You've passed the test, Harry," the dark-skinned wizard said, hands splayed. "It's the first hurdle, of course, but by Woden it's the biggest!"

Harry leaned into his seat, mulling the thought over.

"You... you wanted to know if I was really - "hearing" it. That I wasn't making it up."

"Oh no, Harry," said Dumbledore with a soft laugh. "As we discussed last year, I've suspected it for some time."

Kingsley sauntered towards them, hands behind his back. "The first step to learning the Song, Mister Potter, is to hear where it _isn't. _Now that you've accomplished that, we can work on helping you to sing it for yourself."

Harry did a double take at that, but a wink from Kingsley called an end to the assessment.

"I'll be at Hogsmeade till dawn, Sir Albus," he said with a nod, making his way to the door. "Give us a tune if you need anything."

"Noted, Kingsley," the Headmaster replied in kind. "Thank you, once again."

Harry stared after him, basking in the uplifting breeze of achievement for a short while before his doubt inevitably set in. He still didn't get it.

Magic was still a mystery. Wizards were still a mystery.

Life: the most cruel puzzle of them all.

All of a sudden, Dumbledore chortled.

"A Sphinx could task you deadly riddles, Harry," he said, blue eyes shimmering as he sat beside him. "What is the matter?"

Harry threw his head back, attempting to recall anything that he _could_ make sense of. Few came to mind.

"Everything," he said with a harsh exhale. "One day it's Wandsong, the next it's Duelling, the G- ... I have questions about _everything_."

"I'd be shocked if you did not. What irks you about Duelling? Do you wish to stop?"

"No!" he said, biting his tongue before smiling weakly at Dumbledore. "Sorry. No, but me being... you know, left-handed? Susan got over it - kind of - but it's only going to get worse, now that we're officially partners. Smith says it makes me a Dark wizard."

Dumbledore's eyebrows climbed his temple. "He does? Young Zacharias, you say?"

Harry nodded. "Susan said something about the Left-Hand Path, and- "

"Ah." The Headmaster's eyes were clouded; he peered down at Harry's wand hand. "Such a curious relationship in magic. Left, right. Bright, dark. Often defined, seldom understood. It would be remiss for me to deny that the symbolism of the Left can sometimes lend itself to the ... chaotic, perversive ways of the Dark Arts. Then again, I highly doubt that, as talented as you are, it is a symbol which you recognise."

"I haven't found anything on it," said Harry, crossing his arms. "Just Bright Theory."

"Yes! The other monster, so to speak. Equally elusive to modern witchfolk, if not more than the Dark Arts. Bear in mind, Harry, that the latter has ravaged our society for millennia, the former rearing its head as the crown of all fabled saviours throughout the ages. We now live in a time where a Dark wizard - left-handed too, mind you - rules as tyrant over millions of our brothers and sisters. You've nothing to prove, my dear boy. You _cannot_ prove anything, in fact, for even Merlin was scorned as half-daemon once in his lifetime. Fanatical anti-Dark sentiments have run at an all-time high for many years... though I never suspected that it would reach the children so soon. I apologise, Harry."

"It's not your fault, though," he muttered. "Suppose I should have expected it, what with what happened to Ron's- "

A lump formed in his throat. Should he tell Sir Albus about Pettigrew? About everything?

Dumbledore cracked a wan, wistful smile. "Quite. Ignatius and I were as thick as thieves, it must be said. But I believe the terror has reached its peak."

Harry said nothing.

Dumbledore frowned. "Harry... is there something you wish to tell me?"

How could he say it? He knew that he had to, but how? Neville's lament over losing his own Grimoire was fresh in Harry's mind still, and if only for the sake of keeping a promise, he couldn't do the same.

But this was Sir Albus: the greatest sorcerer of all time, and his guardian. No one else could offer the same help - not even Remus.

"I need to know about the _Three Brothers._"

Dumbledore opened and closed his mouth.

"I see. Where, Harry?"

"I- I don't know. I found the term in a - erm, book, and it just sounded..."

Whether Dumbledore bought the pitiful half-truth or not, the cloud-cover over his eyes darkened.

"It appears that I have homework to do. Meet me tonight at eight sharp please, Harry."

* * *

_"Now just make sure not to break this, Neville-boy! Seven bad years for both of us if you do!"_

"I _know,_ Uncle Algie. Nana thinks I've already got 'em, though!"

_"Oh, she would, wouldn't she? Don't mind her, lad - she's only looking out for you."_

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Uncle Algie?"

_"Yes, Neville?"_

"My Dad was a good person, wasn't he?"

_"... What makes you think he wasn't?"_

"Well I - I dunno, just... stupid. Sorry."

_"Your father was a proud wizard, Neville. Proud wizards are bound to make mistakes sometimes. But yes, he was a good person. And an excellent father."_

"Y- ... yes. Okay. Thanks, Uncle Algie."

He gave a faint nod to his Uncle's urges to call him for anything, pocketing the mirror before traipsing down the steps of the Owlery. It was a brilliant present.

Far better than that wrinkly old book.

* * *

"Then it _is _a fairy tale."

"It is, yes," said Dumbledore, handing over a transcription of _Tales of Beedle the Bard. _"But is that all there is to it?"

_"Can't _you_ tell us?" _murmured Holly.

Dumbledore chuckled. "It is a long story, Harry. Does your wand have patience?"

"It will."

He laughed even harder. "Very well! We begin, then, with Beedle. A Wandsinger, actually - he coined the term in the fifteenth century. The three brothers in question, however, precede even the erection of this very Castle."

Harry gasped. "So they're real after all!"

"Of course," said Dumbledore, inclining his head. "They were the brothers Peverell."

"Peverell..." He ran the name over in his mind several times, almost certain that he'd seen it somewhere else. "So who were they?"

"Now that," replied Dumbledore, leaning forward, "is part of the mystery. Those who ascribe the tale to truth maintain that all three died on these very Isles, though we are quite certain that they did not, in fact, originate here. You see, the Peverell name and its variations were actually quite common among European wizards for some time. It is said that Perillus the Athenian was the progenitor of the line, but that is neither here nor there. All that truly matters are these brothers: Antioch, Cadmus, Ignotus - their uncorrupted family name being lost to time - and what transpired here."

"Did they really meet Death?" asked Harry, arching an eyebrow. "On a lark one night? Really, Professor?"

Dumbledore's mouth twitched. "Some say so. They think it careless of them too, hence the term 'playing Death at bridge'."

"But what do _you _think, Professor?"

Fawkes barked at him.

"Play nice, friend," said Dumbledore, chiding the phoenix with a waggling finger. "They definitely existed. We know this through right of heirloom, among other factors. You remember the gifts that Death bequeathed them?"

Harry nodded. "The wand, the stone and the cloak." His eyes shot open. "They exist too?"

Dumbledore presented his own wand, eyes hovering over Harry's for the briefest of moments before drawing a vertical line of golden flame between them.

"The Wand of Destiny."

Another flourish; a circle fell into place at the base of the line, which intersected it.

"The Jewel of Hope."

A final trio of sweeps enclosed the shapes in a large triangle, its apex falling at the line's end.

"The Shroud of Fortune, Harry. These objects three are known by many names - together referred to as the Deathly Hallows, and occasionally as the Triptych of Hades."

"The Triptych!" exclaimed Harry, causing Fawkes to crow in displeasure. "The Wormtail Killer, he mentioned it in- "

"That he did." Dumbledore waved his wand once more, Vanishing the golden symbol. "The Trishula and their leader rely on its mythology in no trivial measure. You can see why. Magical might, reclaiming what was lost, and freedom from the eyes of one's enemies... Tempting goals for a militant wizard state, no?"

Harry's heart leapt. _Of course it was._

"The Keys. They're just like the Chief House Keys!"

"There are parallels, yes," said Dumbledore softly, his face unreadable. "And yet, they are dangerous beyond even Grindelwald's basest desires."

That was it, then. Pettigrew, the killer of Prewett. Pettigrew, the servant of Grindelwald. If he couldn't get Death's gifts, he could find the next best thing.

His best friend's Keys... and Harry's blood.

"Am I safe here, Professor?"

There was a pause. Fawkes spirited off in a gout of flame.

"I would be more concerned," said the Headmaster, brow well and truly rumpled, "as to why you would even question it."

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Once again, thanks for reading! The reviews are much appreciated as always.

As you've probably noticed by now, there's a shedload of lore in this AU, so I'm thinking about releasing articles every now and again which explore the differences in more detail. Since the fic is nowhere near popular (or noteworthy/original to be honest lol) for a wiki, I'm thinking Google Docs.

The first article would be all about Hogwarts: its brief history, curriculum, traditions, etc. Average update time would be largely unchanged since I have all of this stuff stashed away anyways - it would just be a matter of tidying up the presentation and whatnot. Give me a shout by PM if you'd be interested.


	22. Ginny Plays The Pundit

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Albus has a visitor, Percy hears voices, and Harry reads between the lines.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two - Ginny Plays The Pundit**

MAWSON**: **So if we just re-cap on something you mentioned earlier, about the handover to Minister Jenkins? I want to be clear on it, just for the benefit of those watching at home-

JONES: Sure.

M: About the Leach cabinet being "ultimately detrimental"?

J: Mm.

M: Would you care to elaborate? I mean - he was a popular leader. Most would argue that we've benefited greatly from his reforms to include other Beings in the workforce-

J: And we certainly have.

M: I'm assuming it might involve the Salvage Act.

J: _(short pause) _The Pocks were outrageous - we understood that, which was why we rallied behind Prewett's re-draft-

M: And many still argue that it wasn't enough.

J: It was a complete overhaul, integrally focused upon the exercise of free will. We had a look at it - myself, Urquhart, Potter, Moray mostly, and a few others. Had we not supported that paper with the vigour that we did, I dare say that Leach may have doomed us all.

M: That's quite the accusation.

J: It's well-warranted. _(laughs) _Imagine if he succeeded in elevating Muggle Liaison to Department-level. Where might that have lead in fifty years? Yes - Nobby Leach was brilliant. He _did _have vision, and he was invariably popular. All-in-all, a specially-brewed elixir for disaster, and we're lucky as a nation to be none the wiser.

~ _Elladora Mawson interviews Chief-witch Persephone_ _Jones_ (1988)

* * *

_"You must swear-"_

_"I _swear, _Nicolas. I would never."_

For all his self-restraint, he had almost failed.

Albus amassed a vast occult repertoire in his decades of study, acquiring skills that few wizards could dream of, let alone hope to learn. The most obscure of the lot were often deemed so due their being obsolete to a well-rounded wizard. A handful proved incredibly useful, but unwieldy. To employ them in conjunction with opposing magics ran the risk of incurring fates of unspeakable terror.

Legilimency: answerable to incantations, but far removed from the transient nature of conventional Sorcery. One who deigned to indulge in its secrets learned well enough the anguish that accompanied the incessant presence of neighbouring minds. To forgo the mastery of its potency in favour of "shutting it off", as it were, was tantamount to death.

He drew his eyes shut, expelling a nasal breath as he brought wand to temple. Steadying himself by gripping the Pensieve's edge with his free hand, Albus proceeded to sift through the events of the past hour.

He had to be sure.

_"I would be more concerned as to why you would even question it."_

There sat Harry, just as before, mouth agape and cheeks flushed.

_"I- well, I'm... it's not that I- "_

_"I need you to be completely honest with me, Harry. How else would I be fit to help you?"_

Harry squirmed. _"Yes, I _know_, but..."_

Five seconds turned to ten. Albus watched Harry sit vigil, as if praying for some reprieve from his scrutiny.

_"Harry- "_

_"I c-can't tell you, sir." _The boy's breaths took pace; conflicted, distressed. So unlike his father.

He made to search Harry's downcast face, feeling his brow deepen further. Did he push _here_, unprovoked? Surely not...

_"Your fear is evident, Harry. We all make mistakes - it is the point of learning, is it not? You aren't at fault, I can-"_

_"NO,"_ came a strangled voice. It wasn't Harry's.

He felt the tension buckle, and a deluge of shadows from the recent past spilled into being. Of ancestral papers, of hushed, covert dalliances at nightfall... Everything the child sought to hide was laid bare for them, Wandsingers both, to see as clear as day.

The wand had reacted to his line of sight. It learned him, and knew that his eyes saw past light and colour. _Hollygalleon_, she was called: a fierce protector like no other.

But she was too late, and that same ferocity proved the catalyst for the backlash. Had he not severed the connection (Shielded himself, to put it bluntly) when he did, there was no telling what his own wand might have projected in response. Harry was progressing well under Kingsley, but the bond he shared with his companion astounded him.

_"A perfect match," _Garrick had written. _Maybe too perfect._

That mattered less, at least for the moment. Was Harry correct in that his peers and he - _his_ charges - should fear the wrath of Grindelwald's servant, however misguided his reasoning might have been? Remus did maintain the Albatross' account of meeting Pringle that night.

Had his vigilance waned so much? He doubted it, for Iggy's killer had shown little mercy as of yet.

Ignoring the mongrel sting of dread and wounded pride, Albus touched his wand to the Pensieve's broth, pulling an argent thread of the night's deeds along with it.

As his troubles at last began to ebb, the fireplace roared to life.

_"HEADMASTER DUMBLEDORE?"_

_How timely._ "To whom may I be of service?"

_"DIRECTOR TO THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT."_

Albus chuckled softly, still eyeing the Pensieve. "Please, bring him through."

There was little delay; the rustle of scattered coals and hissing flames signalled the Director's entry into the study.

"A pleasant surprise," said Albus, facing Barty with a tired smile. "You've come bearing news?"

"Good evening, Albus," he replied, placing his bowler hat on the desk before Transfiguring the guest seat into a dark, sleek design, somewhat akin to a broken eggshell.

He sat down, and the chair _swivelled._

"My word, Barty."

Barty sighed, eyelids drawn. "Spare me. I've a question for you, before we go any further."

"And I'm all ears, as always."

Barty stared at him - _through_ him, even - for a moment.

"Wednesday evening past," he said, fingers propping up his lower lip, "one of my senior Watchwizards filed a most peculiar report."

"Of a crime? No one was harmed, I hope."

"Not yet," mumbled Barty, a laboured hand wandering to the rim of his eggshell seat. "But I wasn't the least bit amused to read that Alastor Moody of _all _people was spotted in York. Would you happen to know anything about that, Albus?"

"I know that Wizard Moody is a British citizen with no warrants, outstanding or otherwise."

Barty arched an eyebrow. "You do?"

"As a Warlock and Herald, yes."

After a pregnant pause, Barty allowed himself a dragon's breath of a sniff before opening his eyes again.

"Fine," he said, running a hand over his mouth. "That's all. Your 'news' then, shall we?"

Albus grinned, striding over to his own recliner. "Do tell."

"Nothing racy, Albus - it'll be in the morning _Prophet,_" replied Barty, veering his seat towards Albus. "I ordered an inquest in regards to the conduct of certain sub-Departments during the initial stages of the Prewett case. We received authorisation from the Minister and Chief Warlock this afternoon."

"I see- "

"I haven't finished."

Albus felt his brow twitch upward. "My mistake. Do carry on."

"With pleasure," said Barty, the crook in his lip betraying as much. "The Deputy Commissioner of Investigations was indicted an hour ago."

"I took a risk, Albus," he added, following the pointed silence. "Just be glad that I haven't come to regret it."

* * *

Was it not Daphne Greengrass who once said - with Mrs Plinny's express endorsement - that a witch's secrets were weapons surpassed by no other?

He believed them now, for Harry felt well and truly unarmed.

He misspoke at the worst possible moment; a conversation about the Triptych of Hades, about Grindelwald, about the _killer, _and he had to go and ask if he was "safe"?

It lasted for the briefest of eternities: the brilliant blue flashes behind Sir Albus' look of horror; the blurs of ink and blood between frayed and browning pages; every question he had neglected to ask that night, plucked with ease from the tip of his tongue.

He felt Dumbledore's concern, somehow, and in his helplessness, Harry didn't begrudge him the display. He almost welcomed it, because the elder wizard was much better equipped to deal with the issue. Then again, not only did the Headmaster now know that he was trailing Pettigrew, but also how he had come to harbour his fears.

No one else could find out about that book. He realised that, but did he _have_ to learn the hard way?

Dumbledore, unfailingly placid, betrayed not even a hint of alarm as he excused him that night. He mentioned neither Pettigrew nor the Grimoire, or the fact that he plotted with Hermione to steal from Mr Pringle's office. His few parting words, soft yet terse, were to assure Harry that Hogwarts was safe, that the authorities were doing their utmost, and that justice would prevail in the end.

He confiscated nothing.

Harry took full advantage of that fact. Dumbledore claimed that the Deathly Hallows were real, citing "right of heirloom" to boot. He doubted he would find anything that Pettigrew couldn't, but if he could just glean an inkling of what he was planning, then he would be that much more prepared for whenever Dumbledore wasn't around.

Tools and companion in hand, Harry crept through a trap door on the eastern fourth-floor corridor while thanking the ever-elusive Woden for the fact that, despite his father's terrible humour, he was indeed a clever wizard. It was approaching ten-thirty, so the usual night-watch trawling about the Marauder's Map didn't come as a shock, but the Library and its adjoining passageways were completely empty.

_"We're cooking with gas, then," _whispered Holly as they scaled a lime-frosted pipe to the first floor.

That they were. At this point, Harry would have to search for information on the Hallows by himself. His tutors were out of the question, as was the Restricted Section during waking hours. He would have to go tonight, if only to secure a peaceful rest.

The lower extreme of the pipe ended in a dusty wrought-iron grille, leading Harry to wonder just when it had been repurposed. Its hinges gave way with little effort, and he found himself amid a pair of bookcases labelled _901 - Artifice Maintenance. _Running Holly's tip over the surface of the Map, he scoured the enlarged projection of the Library again for any signs of activity. Finding none besides himself, he sidled across the hall towards the area sealed off by ropes.

_"Lumos," _he whispered while tilting Holly just so, evoking a dim, pale-yellow cone of light instead of the usual cluster of lurid green beads.

Taking care to part the rope chain without a sound, he approached the nearby inventory, skimming through it for any topics related to Death or its legendary gifts to the Peverells. That, of course, proved nowhere near as insightful as he would have hoped. Everything in it was related to Death.

Resolving to search for "Peverell" and the many names of the Hallows, he was met with prospects. A tense while later, _Nature's Nobility, Smiths of the Gods, The Astras Uncovered _and a handful of other books which didn't wail or try to bite him upon being opened were safely stashed away in his satchel.

All that was left was to find his way back.

The first floor was fortunately still uninhabited, while a passageway behind Randolph the Raunchy's portrait on the second eliminated most of his journey. How cruel it was then for Harry, emerging from the sixth floor corridor, to hear voices echoing from the Grand Staircase entrance on the other wing, in all its teleportative glory.

He chewed his lip in frustration. It had been _far_ too easy.

He swept the Map's projection for some saving grace, while two dots - _Penelope Clearwater _and_ Percy Weasley, _to be precise - stalked ever closer.

Just as they were about to reach the corner, instructions for the wall in front of him finally burned themselves into the parchment. Whacking the bricks thrice with his wand, Harry wrenched the secret door open.

"I only wrote her a foot, of cou- ... did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Harry fought down a wince from the void behind the wall. A harried pair of footsteps marched along the corridor - and straight past his sanctuary. He stole a silent sigh of relief.

"It was _right _here- "

"I didn't hear anything, Perce."

Percy grunted. It sounded odd to Harry's ears, but all the more intriguing.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Penny. We _need _to be vigilant!"

"You're mad."

"Me? Mad?" Percy scoffed at her. "You have no idea what- "

"Then tell me, for Christ's sake! _Tell me, _Percy!"

_"Ooh, saucy," _twittered Hollygalleon. _"Aren't they a bit too young for this- "_

"Shh!" hissed Harry aloud, feeling his stomach leap as he realised his mistake.

"See?" said Percy, high-pitched. "Boggarts... they _have _to be."

_Please say Boggarts, please say Boggarts, please say- _

"Boggarts? What on _Earth_ are you taking?" Clearwater took a deep breath, tromping toward the wall before leaning against it. Harry hitched a breath.

"So how do you explain it, then?" asked Percy, exasperated.

"Portraits, Perce?" Harry could almost taste the incredulity in her voice.

Neither uttered another word after that, opting to part ways to their respective dormitories. Harry took a moment to reflect; it appeared that he wasn't the only paranoid pupil in the Castle.

_"We're in the clear!"_

_Not yet. _He gauged a minute or so in his head, until even the snores of the nearby paintings subsided.

"Okay, should be good now," he whispered aloud, perusing the Map to confirm.

_Wait, what?_

The Map no longer illustrated the sixth floor, but the Castle grounds. An awry enchantment, perhaps?

He gingerly placed a hand on the wall, easing it open with caution. To his surprise, Harry was welcomed by a light breeze carrying the smell of peat and dew.

"Lovely."

* * *

**"... that... imperative mood is..."  
**  
_Harry heard the voice, faintly, in the direction of a narrow arc of light far ahead. He scarpered towards it, seeking respite from the ever-present squeaks and scuttles grating along the walls of the tunnel.  
_  
**"...would simply... 'Run!', but... a simple case..."  
**  
_He was almost there; the arc grew brighter, outlining the rim of a jagged stone disc which obscured the tunnel's end.  
_  
_The scuttles became heavier, slower, regular... _human. _This was his only way out.  
_  
**"... is reflected by... Well done, Miss Abbott - a point..."  
**  
_He tried pushing against its side with all his weight, to no avail. A spindly finger dug into his neck.  
_  
**"Harry..." **came a hiss, then a curse.** "Mate, he's... way over..."  
**  
_The finger prodded him again, harder.  
_  
Harry yelped.

"I don't know! I don't know anything!"

The prodding stopped and, save for a cough or two, the scuttling softened to a lull. And light, Harry noted, as he opened an irritated eye.

There was no Worm-tail, no Pettigrew, and no tunnel - only a desk cluttered with parchment, and a miniature puddle of drool where his face lay seconds earlier.

"Then you have come to the right place, haven't you?"

Harry stiffened at the reply, further tightening the knots in his neck. Still a little dazed, he pushed his spectacles back, raising his head to meet the hawkish gaze of Mr Deek.

The silence lingered. Stealing a look to his right, Harry met eyes with Ron who, after struggling and failing to say anything, settled for a wince.

Hollygalleon yawned beneath his robes. _"At least it isn't Snape."_

That was true, but the Latin teacher wasn't exactly renowned for his merciful nature.

"Ooh, ooh!" called a voice behind him. "I know this one, sir... Pottus habet somnium. Humidum est!"

"It was _not_ wet!" Harry barked back, ears pounding with blood.

Deek harrumphed. "A point from Hufflepuff, Smith," he said as the class howled with laughter.

It was karmic debt, Harry told himself, for crawling through the Dragon's Head free of reprimand the previous night. A paltry debt, at that: for half a Galleon, Dean would have his thousand lines ready overnight - penmanship and all, and his spoils from the Library were - in his mind - of much greater worth.

All he needed now was the time to read them.

"I still don't know how you get away with it," said Ron, picking his teeth as they left the Great Hall after supper that evening.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "What're you on? Deek always gives out lines."

"Yeah," said Ron, sniffing. "When people do his homework."

"Which I- " Harry stopped himself at Ron's blank look. "I _usually _do it. I just forget to bring it, sometimes."

Ron snorted.

"Oi!" cried a voice behind them. "Where you off to, lads?"

Harry turned around to nod at Seamus, who was closely followed by Dean.

"Common Room for me," said Ron, stretching his arms. "Sleep off dinner and that."

Dean shook his head. "That can wait! It's try-outs today, remember?"

Harry frowned. "We don't have any try-outs right now."

"Get yer head out yer arse," replied Seamus, cuffing his arm. "Neville? T'ird Seven, yeah?"

Ron gasped. "Ah, course - Fay's up for Chaser!"

Harry stared at him.

"What?" he asked, ears tinged with pink.

Dean jeered at Ron, telling him a great deal more than Harry ever could. As they made their way down to the Quidditch Pitch, Harry found himself reflecting on the one match he had ever seen, courtesy of Ron hogging their Wireless time: the Chudley Cannons held an impressive lead before the Wasps' Seeker discovered that the Snitch had snuggled itself into her hood.

That, he concluded with a grimace, was the only part of the game that he understood.

Feeling his lungs burn as their sprint brought the Pitch into view, Harry used a final burst of effort to vault the Gryffindor stands, tumbling into a scandalised Parvati and Lavender with a strangled cry.

"Watch it, Potter!" shrieked Lavender, hands and hair flying as she was clouted by the hem of Harry's outer robe.

"Sorry," he said, panting as he scanned the field. "Has it started yet? Where's Nev?"

Parvati blew a raspberry. "How would we know? _We're _here to see Fay."

_"Isn't everyone?" _murmured Holly coyly.

"And Ollie Wood," added Lavender, gushing. "_Don't _forget Ollie Wood."

Parvati giggled, swatting her arm. "Oh, I didn't!"

Harry made a face, which Parvati readily returned.

"Why don't you go and bother Hermione?" she said, jerking a thumb towards the higher rows.

"Maybe I will," he replied tartly, ignoring the coos from both the girls and his dorm mates as he climbed the stands.

Hermione was indeed there, flipping through a magazine on her knees with one hand while covering an ear with the other. The short, red-haired witch beside her - all wild gestures and off-tune chants - made for a poor mirror image.

Harry was warned that Ginny Weasley's fanaticism eclipsed that of her brothers, but he'd paid that little mind until now.

"All right Ginny, Hermione?" he called with a lazy wave. Ginny beamed; Hermione gave him a tired nod.

"Right on time, Harry!" opened Ginny with a heavy-handed high-five that he tried to return, however lamely.

Hermione looked up at her, brow furrowed. "They haven't even come on yet."

"Such a party pooper," whined Ginny. She turned back to Harry. "I heard Neville's trying out?"

"I guess," he said, shrugging. "But I don't even know what - er - _role _he's trying out for- "

"Beater," said Hermione, eyes glued to her magazine.

"The ones with the clubs?"

Ginny nodded eagerly. "Fred and George are scary good at it."

Harry knew better than to doubt her. After being on the receiving end of a headlock from one of them, he was intimately aware of the Weasley twins' arm strength.

The Keepers were up first. While the position itself was self-explanatory, the barrage of Quaffles being flung across the field seemed rather excessive.

"Don't they only use two in matches?"

"In Quidditch, you have to be ready for anything," said Ginny. "Something like seven hundred fouls, I think - but bringing extra balls isn't one of them."

Fortunately, only a few potentials had to suffer: Oliver Wood put Bulstrode, a Slytherin in Harry's year, on the shortlist not five minutes after she'd mounted her broom. The fact that her shoulders blocked out the central hoop at rest might have had something to do with that, though.

"She's big enough," said Ginny, ignoring a sharp look from Hermione. "Weedy Keepers are food for Beaters, George always says."

Incidentally, one of the twins was in the air doing just that: more than one metallic ball caught Harry's eye as they careened towards the Keepers' hoops.

Minutes rolled into hours, and Harry grew bored as the Chasers' drill lumbered on. After what felt like at least an hour, a good dozen brooms hadn't yet left the ground.

"Oi, Hermione," said Ginny suddenly, guiding their lines of sight with a finger. "That's _your_ mate, isn't it? She'd better watch that Bludger."

Harry squinted, arching a palm to shield his sight from the glare of the setting sun. Surely enough, he caught a glimpse of a metre-long ponytail that could only belong to Fay Dunbar, just as she barrelled out of the so-called Bludger's path.

"Not half-bad, is she?" shouted Harry over the din of whoops and whistles from the stands below, which only rose in volume as she deftly sculled a Quaffle past the Keeper.

Ginny scrunched her lips. "She's got tekkers."

"But?"

Ginny huffed. "That Wood bloke put her on the right. She isn't playing like it, is she?"

_"Sounds like someone we know, eh?"_

Holly wasn't lying; Susan was infamously difficult to work with during their three-on-three practices. Cedric assigned her to the third line after witnessing her skill with the Freezing Charm first hand, though she accused the Hufflepuff of favouritism after Harry's Pounder landed him up-front. His other Squad-mates told him to ignore it, but he wasn't sure if such advice would hold much water for team events, one of which - against a Patrol-school, no less - was fast impending.

"Nice one, lads and lasses!" bellowed Wood, clapping as he closed a steady circle around the pitch. "Take a breather. Beaters up!"

Harry's ears twitched at that. "Here we go..."

And yet, even after Wood's sixth call, only two hopefuls graced the Pitch: Neville and Ernie Macmillan.

"Glory hounds, these lot," muttered Ginny. "It's not all about scoring points."

Harry cocked his head. "Would've thought that swinging a club around would be pretty popular, no?"

"You're thinking like a duellist," said Hermione, rolling her eyes.

He reeled back, face scrunched. "What's wrong with that? It's bigger than Quidditch, isn't it?"

As soon as he uttered it, Ginny rounded on him, eyes narrowed and wand at his nose.

"Take that back," she said, though the corners of her mouth began to twitch at Hermione's muffled giggles. He swatted the wand away, turning back to the pitch. Wood had already dismounted, and appeared to be engaged in deep conversation with the two second-years.

"Ain't that Wood's cousin down there?" shouted someone a few rows down from Harry.

"Yeah, it is as well!"

The stands were soon abuzz with furtive murmurs, and Harry could only imagine why.

He hadn't seen Neville in the air yet, but he truly wished him the best of luck.

* * *

"I still can't get my head around it. I mean... he's doing a Malfoy right now, isn't he?"

"What do you mean, a 'Malfoy'?"

Harry shook his head in disbelief as he fiddled with the ring pull to an abandoned Enchanting shop, which finally relented with a soft yawn.

"He's always chopping and changing, you know?" he said, eyes running over the Map again as he drew his wand. "Mischief managed. I'm happy for Nev - don't get me wrong. But since when was he interested in Quidditch?"

Hermione shrugged. "Perhaps he just wants to do his own thing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hermione didn't answer, rather opting to lay her books on the centre table. As if on cue, the thick film of dust across its surface dispersed about the room.

Harry spluttered. "Ack - _pff-Fento!"_

Fumbling the incantation, Harry's attempt to expel the clouds with a Wind Charm fizzled, effusing an odour of sour milk instead. Pinching her nose in disgust, Hermione straightened her other palm, bringing it to chest level. After several seconds of nasal, wordless singing passed, the surrounding air cooled somewhat, carrying only the faint scent of lavender and mint.

Hermione freed her nose, sniffing. "Good going, Magus Potter. Now come on - what have you found?"

Harry withdrew a harsh breath, meeting Hermione's eyes for the first time that night before he told the tales of Pettigrew, Lupin, and his meeting with Dumbledore. He did, of course, omit any mention of the Grimoire. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, but the Headmaster knowing about it was already more than he could handle.

Her eyebrows climbed higher with every revelation, and drew tighter with every pause. She seemed fit to burst by the time he reached the end, so Harry exhaled once more, duly bracing himself for the volley of questions surely headed his way.

She dipped her head slightly. "So you're sure it's Pettigrew?"

He gave her a firm nod. "Has to be. He came here to get the Map from Pringle that night, and I've got a feeling that he bumped into someone else too."

"Who?"

"Percy," he said, looking up at her.

Hermione shifted in her seat, resting her chin on a hand. "Percy."

"The Prefect, yeah."

She regarded him with a heavy-lidded stare. "You do know that I live with Percy, don't you?"

Harry inclined his head, raising his hands in protest. "Yes, I know it sounds odd, but- "

"Odd, Harry?" She chuckled. "Of course not! I mean, it isn't like Percy's afraid of his own shadow or anything- "

"I think he's plenty brave," said Harry. "A little paranoid, maybe- "

"Exactly! He's _totally_ not going to be the first one to run home when he bumps into his great-uncle's murderer! So no, it's not odd at all!"

"What about the Deathly Hallows, then?" said Harry, suddenly feeling his face burn.

Hermione chuckled again. It was beginning to make his skin crawl.

"What_ about _them? It's a myth," she said, throwing her hands up. "We're trying to find the truth here, and you come up with a fairy-tale! Are you even taking this seriously?"

Harry arched an eyebrow. "You what?"

"Did you read the _Prophet _this morning? Ministry wizards might be in on this - the safety of this Castle could be at stake!"

"So's mine," he said, tossing the Map onto the table. "Doubt I'd be on his Christmas card list if he found me with that."

Hermione looked at him askance. "Since when was this all about you?"

"About- " He ran a hand over his mouth, exhaling. "You're having a laugh, aren't you?"

"Do you hear me laughing?" she said, arms crossed.

His lips were ready with a retort, but as he met her gaze, he thought better of it. If he could just get through to her...

"Look, Hermione," he said, nursing his brow. "I get how serious this is. You have no idea. The Hallows- "

She snorted, but made no rebuttal, so he pressed forward.

"I know it's a fairy-tale, but they're real - or they were... Dumbledore wasn't really clear about that. What matters is that Grindelwald and his lot are really into them. That's what Pettigrew's all about."

"So why kill Prewett?" she asked. "Why the explosion? Why come here?"

"Because he needs the next best thing," said Harry, failing to stop his voice from rising. "The Keys, Hermione!"

Hermione tutted. "What Keys?"

"The Keys of the Chief Houses, for crying out loud!" he said, feeling the spittle fly from his tongue. "The Union's Keys! The reason why wizards like Grindelwald can't just blow it all up! So he kills Prewett, a Wizard of the Grand Oak - okay, maybe it's to show the Wizengamot that they aren't so untouchable? The explosion and the break-in? Maybe he's getting cocky - just wants to prove how untouchable _he _is- "

"You sound ridiculous."

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "The whole thing is ridiculous! Doesn't stop him from doing it though, does it?"

Hermione remained silent.

"What?"

She lowered her eyes. "You think he's looking for _you_. What - because of your blood?"

"He might be," he replied. "Weren't you the first to say it?"

Slowly rising to her feet, Hermione proceeded to pack her books away, one at a time.

Harry did a double take. "What are you doing?"

She didn't respond until the last tome was replaced, fastening the clasp of her bag with a gentle _click._

"When did you last ask Ron about all of this, Harry?"

"Ron?" he repeated, perplexed. "Never. You said we shouldn't- "

"I have somewhere to be," she said tonelessly, stalking towards the door.

"_Somewhere_? It's almost midnight- "

"Good night, Harry."

And with that, the door shut behind her.

_"Must be something in the water," _said Hollygalleon.

_Sorry?_

_"Come on, idiot," _it replied with a prickly tingle. _"Neville's been acting up, and now Hermione. Maybe it's something _you're_doing..."_

Already feeling lethargic and addled from his previous argument, Harry felt entitled in avoiding another. Ignoring his wand's ongoing verbal assault, he dived into his satchel with purpose, fishing out the Restricted Section's copy of _Smiths of the Gods. _He had avoided it so far, as a casual skim of its pages indicated that the text prioritised the methods of said craftspeople over their personal lives. None of the other books established a connection between the Peverells and the Deathly Hallows (or the Triptych, even), however, so he thumbed through the index with admitted desperation.

"P... Peverell brothers - page twenty thirty-two. Okay..."

**_THE BROTHERS THREE: A MURAL OF DEATH_**

Harry felt his stomach leap. This _had _to be it.

_In a mausoleum burrowed deep within a seaside grove, the remains of the wizard now referred to as "Ignotus Peverell" were laid to rest in 486CE. Those of his elder brothers were never recovered, although it is widely attested that all three sired children. While precious little can be found regarding the family's origins, the legends told of their respective masterpieces far precede them. _

_The Wand of Destiny, purportedly fashioned from elder (as was true in the myth) and a single Thestral tail hair, is indeed very well-documented for an artifice of such advanced age. That its history begins with its creator's death is only fitting for such a tool. A later journal entry from Egbert the Egregious seems to corroborate rumours that the wand enjoys a form of protection quite unlike that of an Unbreakable Charm..._

Again, the focus meandered towards the technical, and Harry felt his sense of hope dwindle as he glanced back at his satchel.

_"Oh no you don't," _growled Holly beside him. _"Finish it."_

Suppressing a moan, Harry complied. There was nothing to lose, and he was going to lie in on the weekend anyway.

_Historians lack a similar parchment trail in the search for the Resurrection Stone, often called the Jewel of Hope or Hades' Eye. Various accounts from supposed peers of Cadmus' descendants paints a picture of a wretched family tree, featuring claims of Necromancy involving the corpses of great-grandparents, spouses and even infant children. However accurate such reports may be, many archeoartificers - mainstream or otherwise - hypothesise that the stone's intended function has been lost to time._

_A brief letter from Ignotus' son to his only child, Iolanthe, remains the most intimate source of information on the Deathly Hallows:_

_"My dearest daughter, I hope you are well. _

_I have arrived at the Selwyn forts in good health, spirited by the wiles of a kind old elf. Our cousin is good company, and hosts well. He has not married. I know that it is because of my uncle's hideous jewel, but I fear that asking him to dispose of it might incur his suspicion. The local witches do not leave him, for they have seen him work great magics with it, and for all his benevolence, I cannot help but hold him at fault. My father passed down his shroud with much caution. He claimed that it was woven from the flesh of Death Himself and that one should wear it with that in mind. When the time comes for myself to do the same, please remember this. Seek not Fortune, for you already have it in life. _

_May Woden stay from your hearth in my absence."_

"Life is Fortune," he mouthed, frowning a little. "Seek not... wait. 'Death will claim all'?"

Hollygalleon gasped. _"Fortune is futile - it's the Lead Coin!"_

Life, Death, Fortune: all were common terms, and even more so to witchfolk. But to be represented in a "shroud"... how could it have slipped his mind?

He reached for the Grimoire and pressed his thumb to the bloodstained back page, Dumbledore's musings haunting him all the while:

_"They definitely existed... we know this through right of heirloom, among other factors..."_

He dabbed at his quill, and scrawled onto the parchment with bated breath.

_James Charlus Potter._

_._

_.._

_How can I help, Harry James?_

_._

_Where is the Shroud of Fortune?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_So Albus told you after all._

Harry almost swore aloud. Dumbledore was in on it too? He felt his insides twist at the thought.

_No, he told me about the Hallows._

_._

_.._

_So what have you learned? Tell me._

He wanted to curse his father, or even tear the parchment, but he knew that would accomplish nothing. He acquiesced.

_Pettigrew raved on about the Triptych of Hades in this news report. Dumbledore told me that Grindelwald is mad about them, so if Pettigrew is his servant then he would try his best to get at least one of them, if they exist._

_._

_Interesting._

_._

_I thought that he was after our Keys at first, because they sound a little similar. But then I looked into the Hallows, and a letter written by a Peverell really reminded me of the Lead Coin. Now you're saying that Sir Albus knows. What are you hiding, Dad?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_Peter could do a lot with our Keys, Harry, but you are correct. That isn't why he is looking for you._

Harry's tongue went dry, his fingers quivering. A small part of him wanted to close the Grimoire, run away and head for Oakwood, but even then, he knew his curiosity would overcome everything else.

It always did.

_Then why, Dad?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_Because as of my death, the Shroud of Fortune belongs to you, and __no one else__._

* * *

**interlude three - eye for detail**

_Welcome back to the Order, old boy._

He scoffed, polishing off the rest of his flask with a final gulp. The silver-infused Tranquillity Tonic was therapeutic for old Curse wounds, among other things. Given current circumstances, in fact, the likelihood of encountering "other things" was that much greater, so a Refilling Charm was in tentative order.

He hardly resented them; Dresden was a stubbornly dull community for a warlock, if not insulting. The past decade had shaped it for the worse, and had the old Count not granted him access to the city Foe-Glass, he would have left years earlier. To force a sorcerer to sheathe their wand in public was nothing short of an affront.

And yet, he only returned at Albus' behest in the knowledge that, if he didn't, the Ministry would have called him in anyway (however reluctantly).

He spat a stray morsel of clotted silver back into the flask, casting his eye over the surface of the wood-side brook.

It was ugly.

_Moody by name, moody by nature. _He supposed that their old friend was right.

Then again, he was here, and Ignatius wasn't.

"You're sure he'll come back, Alastor?"

Swivelling his eye backward, he was greeted by another sorry sight. Lupin hadn't slept for weeks - or eaten, if his sagging eyelids and sallow cheeks were any indication.

Alastor grunted. "There's enough Polyjuice in that shed to turn a dragon for a month. He'll come."

Lupin nodded, turning listlessly on the spot before trudging back to their hiding place in the nearby shrubbery. He paused halfway, looking over his shoulder.

"Do you want the paper? It's all about Runcorn."

Alastor wheeled around to fix the younger wizard with a bemused look.

"Why would I want it if you've already told me, boy? Get over here and finish off these Charms."

Wand in hand, Lupin shuffled over wearing an ill-concealed snarl, tugging his cloak over his head.

"Apologies," mumbled a disembodied voice. "Never was a fan of the man."

_Competent, then._

He blinked hard, and Lupin's cloaked figure reappeared, sweeping his wand to and fro.

"No bother," replied Alastor, curling his upper lip. "He's a twat."

Lupin tittered, prompting Alastor to steal a curious look at him. He didn't feel _sorry _for him, as such - that wasn't quite appropriate - as he seemed normal enough, but that was part of the problem.

He wasn't normal at all.

"I hear you were friends with Potter," he said, tapping his flask with his wand. The silver would be especially dilute this time, but the faint sloshing sound calmed him nonetheless.

Lupin hummed. "You have?"

"Oh yes," said Alastor with a dark chuckle. "I've heard all about you, boy - don't you mind."

The wizard-wolf stood ramrod straight. Alastor guffawed.

"It don't bother me much, boy," he added, tilting his head. "Your kind's all right with me. I've met wizards with twice the appetite."

Lupin allowed him a chortle, shoulders slackening.

"Fair play," he muttered. "Yes, James and I were close. You met him, did you?"

"A couple times," replied Alastor, glancing back at him. "Did a raid with him back in the day."

"I suppose that went well...?"

Alastor shrugged. "Lost my nose, didn't I?"

Lupin cleared his throat. "Ah."

"It was over in Diagon, funny enough," he said, grazing a thumb against his forehead. As the telltale frigid droplets of the Disillusionment Charm cascaded down his brow, he drew his wand and cast its light. He edged closer to the shed, Lupin in tow.

"The Trishula?" asked Lupin, his voice scarcely louder than the stream behind them.

Alastor scoffed. "Who else? They had a club a few doors down from that owl shop - made it look all fancy in the front, and that. Come to find out after our informant gets word that they've got Muggles in the attic."

"What? Dead, you mean?"

"Not quite," said Alastor, crouching below their designated bush. "Anyway, I went with Potter and Black - it was their first."

Lupin went quiet for a while. "How did they do?"

"To this day," said Alastor, stroking his jaw, "I still don't understand how he knew to Conjure that gas."

"Sorry?"

"We thought they'd all been Kissed," he clarified before rattling off the standard set of Jinxes around them. "But he saw... I don't know, _something _in 'em at the last minute. Anyways, the whole room goes bananas, and we get in a scrape with old Carrow's lot. Black sparks off a Blasting Curse at her, but he's still giggling like a pissed-up forest-elf."

Lupin swallowed. "So he got you?"

A high-pitched chime pierced his ears. "Bingo. He's here, by the way."

Lupin hitched a breath, but otherwise stayed silent. Alastor was grateful.

He scanned the expanse, expectations met as his eye lit the wizard's cloak brighter than most fairies at night. That he couldn't see _through_ the damned thing wasn't exactly rare, but infuriating nonetheless.

The Albatross prowled towards the distant shed, peered through the crack at the frame, and finally... nothing. He swerved on the spot, hood levelled in their direction.

"What?" whispered Lupin. "He can't have seen us!"

Alastor ground his remaining teeth. "Bloody right he has. Right through the Bedazzling Hex - _shite_. Wand at the ready, bo- "

_"YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN THAT, MAD-EYE."_

Lupin swore, and Alastor sighed. The voice, deep and hollow, seemed to emanate from the leaves themselves as much as it did from inside his head. Strange, questionable magic, though not quite Dark.

"My name still gets around, then," he murmured, tightening his grip on his wand's handle. "Tonight wasn't gonna be his night, but it looks like we'll- "

_"SORRY, MAD-EYE. I WIN THIS TIME."_

The Albatross flourished his wand to no immediate effect. Alastor frowned at the figure for a moment before howling in pain, cradling his face. Even as he shut his eye, the violent flashes of red and orange refused to cease their assault, and the force of a myriad white-hot needles invaded his skull. He heard Lupin charge past him, but a sharp _crack _followed soon after.

A mighty setback, to say the least.

"Alastor?" called Lupin after him. "You all right there? What's he done?"

The throbbing in his socket began to recede. Peeping through his right eye, a dark blob in the distance accompanied the sound of rushing footsteps.

"He's off," rasped Lupin, hands on hips as he caught his breath. "Just about picked up his trail with the Charms, though."

Alastor nodded, removing his hand as the pain eventually ceased.

"Good work," he said, sniffing as he limped ahead. "Real piece of work, that bastard."

"I'll say," said Lupin, drawing back his hood. "What did he do to you?"

"Hexed his clothes. It tripped my eye up real good."

Lupin's brow rose. "He can do that?"

Alastor sneered, ripping his flask from his outer robe.

Only a handful of wizards knew of the magic behind his eye. Given that said wizards were either mad, dead or Albus, tonight only served to raise more questions than answers.

_I'll find you yet. Just a matter of time._

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **So I thought it might be more accommodating to pair each of these interludes with the previous chapter - you know, just for convenience's sake. The chapter numbers should be less confusing now. Anyway, thanks for reading and thanks for the reviews! This chapter was the first to be posted in the WbA over at DarkLordPotter, and I think the story will benefit greatly from that in the chapters/sequels ahead. So - 'til next time!

P.S. Still working on the lore stuff. Keep your eyes peeled if that's your thing.


	23. Lavender Sees A Ghost

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY:** Sir Albus watches a play, Harry is given history lessons, and Neville looks at his reflection.

* * *

_"We were the elites, so we were told. Plainclothes unless asked and no gear but what you'd wear to the Cauldron after a Falcons game. Well, except for the signet. That's what it meant to be an Auror. That's what set us apart. You had to be able to do your job with your wand alone, but that poxy ring saved my life more than once. It's a damned shame that it wasn't enough for them.  
_

_"I remember checking out just as the Longbottoms were heading off. Alice was sunny as ever, but I'd never seen Frank like that. He looked... _happy_. And he was such a moody git most of the time - didn't make any sense! He was like that since recruitment. They went off with their heads held high that day. That raid basically represented everything the Office stood for._

_"I quit after that, when they started calling it the Arezzo 'Affair'. I wasn't scared of bad intel or anything, but it showed how out-of-control Runcorn was. If you've got wizards and Dark detectors posted all over the frigging coast and inland, and you don't pick up an Erumpent Bomb of all things? Nah. Didn't faze him. He can stew in Doxy piss for all I care."_

_~ Dark Side of the Bright Brigade: An Interview with Sabina King _(1987)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three - Lavender Sees A Ghost  
**

As the browning leaves upon Hogwarts' grounds fell prey to the shadows of the Castle walls, the Great Hall's interior was showered by a spectrum of hues from the lustrous ceiling above. The Senior Company was in rare form that night, claiming the rapt attention of every eye and ear in the chamber, and in one wizard, the first act's developments evoked a running commentary not unlike a soliloquy in its own right:

"A tryst in the forest? With the Gnome-prince? Oh my - those sorts of affairs _never _end well."

"_Elphias! _Hush, man."

"But we've reached the intermission!"

Albus bid Minerva a tight-lipped grin. Though he considered himself a patient friend, even he could grow weary from Elphias' ramblings on such occasions.

Tapping the wispy-haired wizard on the shoulder, Albus wove his way through the stuffy rows of spectators with the blusterous lawns in mind - only to be intercepted by a beaming Chief-wizard Malfoy at the door of the Great Hall.

"Sir Albus! Just the wizard I was looking for," he said, palm extended.

Masking his wince with a smile, Albus briefly shook it, gesturing towards the grounds with his other hand.

"Forgive my lack of eloquence," said Malfoy, nodding faintly as they crossed paths with an owlish-looking Thaddeus Smith, "but Narcissa and I were simply blown away by 'Odessa's' player. Does she have a name?"

Albus' brows pinched for a moment. "Ah - Natalie Pearson. She's a Ravenclaw Prefect."

"And a damned good actress! It's obviously not her first - how haven't we heard of her?"

"Well, she is Muggle-born," said Albus, tilting his head. "Though she's been accepted at W.A.D.A, I hear. For the Theurgic Theatre Performance programme?"

Malfoy made an appreciative noise. "How very good for her."

They fell quiet as the Lake came into view. Albus' eyes hovered over a Thestral-drawn carriage on the other end of the bank, the skeletal figures melding with the Forest as they passed by the light of Hagrid's hut.

A party headed for Hogsmeade, no doubt.

"Now Albus," said Malfoy, squaring his shoulders as he placed his hands behind his back, "since we've just broached the topic of... "

"Go on, Lucius."

Malfoy offered him a weak smile - at least, that was how Albus decided to take it. With their backs facing the orange gleam of the Castle, young Lucius might have dared to sneer at him.

"We've been hearing... talk."

"Oh?" Albus adjusted his spectacles as his ears began to twitch. "And what, pray tell, does 'talk' have to say for itself, Lucius?"

Malfoy coughed a short laugh. "We _are _on the same side - I do wish you'd realise that. In any event, we've heard of a... study group of sorts. Among the pupils in question, that is."

"Have you, now?"

Malfoy glanced at him.

"It's an admirable effort," he continued, turning back towards the Lake, "and there would be no trivial benefit from it, I'm sure, but isn't it defeating the point?"

Albus raised his chin. "How so?"

"Well," said Malfoy, clearing his throat, "we're running an experiment of sorts, aren't we? Without a, ah, _control _as the Muggles might say... "

Albus chuckled.

_Quoting Muggles, dear boy? Surely not._

"I assure you, Lucius, that it is far from the intentions of my staff to undermine your wife's most recent venture-"

"This is not a personal matter," said Malfoy, his words clipped. "We're taking this quite seriously, Headmaster."

Albus lay a hand on his shoulder. "As am I. Now, shall we return to the Hall? I have it on our elves' authority that the Boom Berry Punch is 'top notch'!"

He strode toward the Castle with a spring in his step, Lucius hot on his trail. Of course, Albus knew better than to accept the Chief-wizard's fluster as genuine. A masterful rendition of a wounded Nundu, certainly: he foresaw at least a dozen counter-plots in response.

As they reached the Entrance Hall, Albus caught the haunted eyes of a familiar friend. With cheeks tinged scarlet and auburn locks in disarray, the square-jawed witch bustled over with a practised stare.

"Inspector Bones," came a messy chorus from Albus and Malfoy.

She nodded. "Wizards. Apologies - I can't say that I purchased a ticket."

"Not that we'd ask it of you," said Malfoy, scoffing, though he swiftly schooled his expression as Bones hardened her gaze. "But I'm assuming that's not why you're here."

She swallowed, shaking her head. "Actually, no. Director Crouch requested your presence in York at your earliest convenience, Sir Albus."

Albus inclined his head. "Would you kindly excuse us, Lucius?"

"Absolutely," murmured the Chief-wizard after a second, tearing his eyes away from Bones with some effort as he sauntered off to the Great Hall.

"Please, Inspector," said Albus, encircling them with his wand.

She pursed her lips, looking up at Albus with a nasal exhale.

"We carried out a raid today, down at Sablestaff Court. The Director granted it following the indictment of the former Deputy."

Albus arched an eyebrow. "You found something?"

Bones gave him a tentative nod.

"Well, it's Runcorn," she said with a shrug. "He was found dead."

* * *

_I would appreciate it if you started from the beginning._

_._

_.._

_You've really taken after your Mum, Harry._

A backhanded compliment, most likely.

Still bewildered after the revelation that he, set apart from every other living wizard, was the rightful owner of the Shroud of Fortune, Harry forced himself to focus on the Grimoire before him. It was hardly a shock that Dumbledore of all people knew - or it _shouldn't_ have been, he supposed.

That he was yet so ignorant after becoming privy to one of the greatest legends of wizardry, however, was an all too bitter tonic to swallow.

Perhaps he was being ungrateful. It went without saying that Harry had learned so much more in the past hour, even if prising information from his late father had, so far, proven little easier than drawing unicorn blood from a block of granite.

_"There's probably a spell for that."_

_And it's probably Dark - let's not get any ideas._

Numbing the Song to the sniggers of his wand, Harry gripped his quill with purpose.

_How did we get the Shroud, Dad? How much of the story is true?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_First of all, you asked me to start from the beginning. You've just contradicted yourself in the space of two sentences. What are they teaching at Hogwarts?_

_._

_STAY ON TOPIC, PLEASE._

_._

_.._

_..._

_Your Mum used to do that, you know._

Harry stabbed the page with his quill.

_Sorry! Now, I'm really not certain how accurate the fairy tale is, though my own father took it quite seriously._

_._

_Why didn't he tell me anything?_

_._

_Because that's just how powerful I am._

His father must have anticipated another attack once Harry's quill touched the page, as his scrawl suddenly flooded the weathered surface with an audible scratch.

_The protections hid the knowledge from anyone seeking to read it: plain and simple. I had to learn the Charms from your mother. She was even better at the subject than I was. Of course, there was also the fact that I couldn't trust anyone else with this kind of information. She didn't read the Grimoire, as things never really got that desperate, but I needed her. And I'm going to need you, now, so read on carefully._

_Whether Death himself bequeathed the Peverells with the Hallows or not is irrelevant, as they're insanely powerful regardless. I don't really subscribe to the theory of the Wild manifesting as gods, but I'm sure that there are priests and theurgists who have told you different._

_"He doesn't know the half of it," _muttered Holly with a sniff.

_What matters is the trail of inheritance. You know how it goes: Antioch was murdered, and the Elder Wand accepted the thief. That thief got sparked off, and so did their murderer, and then that wizard got ripped off, et cetera. Cadmus offed himself, and his family found that Stone, not really knowing how to use it. No one's seen it again, but there are some good guesses, I think._

_To my knowledge, only the Cloak of Invisibility, or the Shroud of Fortune as we've also come to name it, had an uninterrupted line of rightful succession. That is to say, the Shroud has always belonged to Ignotus' direct descendants._

Harry sucked in a breath; there it was, in magicked ink. He knew it in retrospect, as soon as he remembered Hedra's Lead Coin and the message behind it, but it had been far too incredible for him to truly comprehend.

_This is how it goes, Harry:_

_Iolanthe Peverell was the remaining heir to Ignotus, as his only granddaughter. She got the Shroud after her father passed, and changed her name to Hedra - yes, that one - after hearing the story about her eldest uncle, also dropping 'Pirelian' or whatever they called themselves then. A few years down the line, she gets married to a wizard called Bryn. Things get murky from here._

_"They haven't already? Looks like 'idiot' runs in the family-"_

_Shush, you._

_._

_What do you mean by "murky", Dad?_

_Shady. Dark. Bloody._

As his father continued to graze the parchment with his infinite supply of ink, Harry felt his insides shift at the thought of what dark deeds were to follow. Did magic and malice really sleep in the same bed?

_What we now know as Godric's Hollow became the stronghold of the wand-wielders in Cornwall, after a group of them kicked out the Troll-witches under Gwennol._

_._

_Professor Doge told me about that. I guess I know a little bit about this, then._

_._

_.._

_Maybe. Anyway, they form a pretty loose clan to secure the village, and they lead the neighbouring witchfolk as the wizard-chiefs of Dumnonia. The village elder of Godric's Hollow, whom we know only as the "Potterer", was one of them. He didn't bother anyone unless he was called on for something, and so on. Just a nice old wizard._

_He dies, and since Iolanthe's husband Bryn was his eldest and favourite, he leaves him with the lion's share of the gold. The only problem here is that he had seven kids._

_._

_Is that where it got bloody?_

_._

_.._

_They sacked the Hollow, and Bryn died defending it. Hedra went into hiding with their only son. Of course, none of the Potterer's other children knew about the Shroud, so they were safe as, but the son returned upon his mother's death, a good forty years later._

_._

_That's a very long time._

_._

_.._

_He got a lot done. Haven't you ever wondered why it's called the Shroud of "Fortune"?_

It was quite an odd name, in hindsight. What did fortune have to do with being invisible, after all?

_Wait a second..._

_Was he a thief?_

_._

_.._

_..._

_Sort of. It sounds strange to call someone a "good" thief, but that's just what he was. He stole missing artifices and handed them back to their owners - usually high priests and the like. He made quite a living out of it, since he bought himself a band of sorcerers to steal the Hollow back by force. _

_._

_.._

_What was his name?_

_._

_Gil. Gil the Potter, because he used to make the cauldrons for potioneers from all over. We've looked after Cornwall and the Shroud ever since._

_._

_.._

_..._

_And now Grindelwald wants to take it._

Harry's temples throbbed with surprising frustration. He had fallen in love with the legend, the story of his ancestry, even, ever since he heard Doge's tale in Diagon Alley last year. And now, as the last Potter standing, he felt ill-equipped to protect it: just like the Dursleys and Oakwood.

Just as he began to wallow in the encroaching misery of it all, unmoved even by Holly's brush of warmth at his side, yet another bout of scratches across the parchment brought him out of his stupor.

_He does, but he won't._

His heart leapt.

_Why?_

_._

_.._

_Because you'll get to it first._

* * *

The next morning, Harry found himself altogether out of sorts. The growing pool of his relatively mundane concerns - namely Hermione, Neville and the upcoming duels - had been flushed downstream by the current of the Grimoire, the Shroud, and the ever enigmatic James Potter.

He had never considered himself to be the most socially engaged (not at Hogwarts, by any measure) but nor had he ever felt so disconnected from the everyday goings-on in the Castle as he did now: cramming survivalist cantrips for treasure hunting was a little too extra-curricular, even for him.

"Gryffindors - single file over here! Gryffindors... "

As Mr Watts beckoned the second-years over with his hand aloft, Harry cast a cursory look over the conspicuously bare Great Hall. Aside from the year group, the Deputy Heads and Professor McGonagall, who stood solemn-faced behind the Headmaster's lectern, the chamber was virtually naked. There were no tables, chairs or banners in sight. Even the ceiling took note of this, it appeared, assuming a dull, uniform grey coat.

"Wonder what all this is?" he mumbled aloud.

"Quidditch lot, I'd bet," said Ron to his left, eyes flitting about the Hall.

"Almost got Kissed last night, didn't they?"

Harry made a face. "They _what_?"

_"Is _that _what teachers call punishment these days?" _mused Holly.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. Harry jumped.

"Rumours, fella," said Neville, grinning beside him. "_Dementors... _s'all tosh. Speaking of last night, where were you?"

Before Harry could respond, McGonagall silenced the chamber with a _crack _from her wand.

"Good morning, all," she said evenly, to which she received a rumbling echo of "Morning, Professor."

She left her station at the lectern, ambling down to the front end of the House lines.

"Before we delve into the topic for today's assembly," she said, sharing a look with Professor Snape at the far side of the Hall, "we must address an incident which took place during the early hours of the morning. In a dreadful show of reasoning far beyond my comprehension, three Upper School students elected to drive their carriage to Hogsmeade via a detour through the Forbidden Forest. They were attacked upon their return."

No one dared utter a word - except for Ron.

"Told you," he breathed from the side of his mouth.

"Fortunately, no one was seriously harmed," said McGonagall, exhaling, "but let this incident serve as a grave reminder to those who subscribe to a," she briefly pursed lips, glancing at Harry, "_liberal _interpretation of the rules."

_"The Map," _moaned Holly. _"Of _course_ she would know."_

_I doubt it, _thought Harry. _She just can't see anyone else being that stupid._

_"For once, we agree."_

"And now, without further ado," said McGonagall, extending an arm to her left, "I shall hand over to Professor Snape."

The sallow-faced wizard strode over to replace her, beady black eyes sweeping over the fleet of second-years.

"Thank you, Professor," said Snape softly. A pause; his gaze darted to the right.

"_You_, boy!"

A spindly finger was levelled at poor Randall Ogden, who winced.

"Y-yes, sir?"

Snape's lip curled. "How many days until the eve of Samhain?"

Randall hemmed and hawed as usual; he seemed to steam at the ears as he put his fingers to work.

"Erm, uhh - s-six, sir!"

A collective breath was held among the Gryffindor cohort during the exchange. Harry felt a substantial breeze as Snape stiffly nodded his assent.

"The annual observances are fast upon us," he said, commencing a slow, laboured stride along the Hall. "We are to prepare our minds - _contemplate_ \- beyond the practice of... thoughtless..." he halted for a moment as he approached Randall, "... ritual, for lack of a better term."

Snape finally stopped at the centre of the Hall, eyes plummeting as he withdrew his wand. It was as that moment, for the first time ever, that Harry noticed the cleanly carved cross-hair etched into the floor's smooth stone surface: four narrow lines converging at a spherical impression which also caught the Professor's attention.

Snape stared up at the students, brow creased and lips slightly parted.

"Your parents and guardians were duly informed of today's proceedings," he finally said, fingering his wand, "and have given their express consent. It is apparent that their faith in your constitutions exceeds my own.

"I would advise the squeamish to return to their House quarters _immediately_."

Harry was rooted to the spot, eyeing the Professor's wand as he wrestled with intrigue and anxiety. The rest of his year similarly stayed put; after all, whatever Snape had in store for them couldn't be that dangerous - assuming that he cared for their well-being as much as McGonagall did.

Snape's eyebrows rose a tad. "Very well."

He flexed his free hand, palm facing upward; as his fingers danced, a pocket-sized bottle shimmered into form between them. Vanishing the cork with a tap of his wand, Snape held the bottle high for all eyes to see - and a reedy, strangled gasp for breath tickled Harry's ears.

Holly shivered at his side._ "What on earth...?"_

Harry peered into the vessel's depths as the glass caught the light. The silvery vapours within rippled and lashed against its surface, the gasp soon accompanied by a choir of hisses and moans.

They were _human_.

"You are about to bear witness," said Snape, lowering his hand, "to the account of a witch who lived under the Grindelwald regime during the - so-called - '_Glorious_ Expansion'."

Harry heard a wince. Turning to his right, he caught Hermione's skittish eye. She looked away in haste, as if to strike up conversation with an utterly vacant Arjan Kokhar.

_"Don't worry about it," _breathed Holly. _"She's obviously still miffed."_

_Yes, but about _what_?_

Potential mind-reader or no, Snape left him no time to ponder: waving his wand in a stream of sweeping gestures, he spun a brilliant argent ribbon from the bottle's contents. As he poured them into the stone recess with an ear-piercing crystalline splash, the Hall was suddenly enveloped in a searing glow.

* * *

_Shite._

It took an age for her eyes to adjust. Until a firm yet cautious hand clasped her robe at the forearm, Hermione was almost entirely unaware of having fallen over.

"Miss Granger? Are you quite all right?"

Arching her neck to meet the voice, Hermione strained to focus on Professor McGonagall's slightly pinched features. Once she came to, a glance to the Deputy Headmistress' left revealed a grinning Mr Watts, eyes dancing with mirth.

He chuffed. "First-timers."

"Pay him no mind," muttered McGonagall, looking askance at the artificer. "Would you like to rest for a while? We cannot leave just yet."

Hermione frowned, scrambling to collect her thoughts as the pair helped her to her feet.

"N... no, that's fine, Professor," she said, flashing a brief smile in gratitude. "Thank you. Where is... here?"

Watts beamed. "Ah! Where else but Nineteen Fifty-Three, Madam Granger?"

Wide-eyed, Hermione mouthed the words to herself as she surveyed the area: they were standing on the high end of a meadowed incline.

The lifeless walls of the Great Hall were long gone, and a cloudless, cornflower-coloured sky draped above in the ceiling's stead. Her eyes soon fell upon the rest of the year group, who were being herded down the slope by Snape and the other Deputies towards a cluster of brightly painted roofs in the distance.

"That can't be right, can it?" Hermione felt a stab of worry; it went beyond all reason. "Time travel is danger- _oh_! Snape called it an 'account'... a memory."

McGonagall inhaled, her head slightly bowed. "Braňka Ciernik. She was an assistant instructor at the time."

"Down there?"

McGonagall nodded. "I never could pronounce its name, but it translates quite crudely to 'Lucky Well'."

Despite the scene being as striking as it was, the mood was dampened by the foreshadowing of whatever Hermione assumed was to come. Even Mr Watts, typically the picture of whimsy, stood stoic with his shoulders firm and jaw set.

"We should catch up," he said tersely, shrugging his cloak aside as he made to scale the hill.

It didn't take long at all for Hermione to regroup with the others. Snape stopped the procession at the foot of the hill, where they were welcomed by the sight of a bustling summertime marketplace. Self-playing pan flutes hung from gaudy, animated shop signs, while fresh-faced youths - wizards and dwarves alike, it seemed - communed at the central concrete fountain, milking the sun's rays for all they were worth.

Were it not for the dull-haired, moulted unicorn carting a pair of witches across the main road, the backdrop might have made an idyllic postcard.

"It's beautiful," said Lavender, mere milliseconds before she squawked and clutched Hermione's robes for dear life.

"_What_ are- " she began to retort, bristling as a gaggle of spectres walked right through her. As she collected herself, though, Hermione realised that something wasn't quite right about those ghosts: their feet touched the ground.

"So the Great Hall is a Pensieve," said Padma to her right, head tilted.

"That's... so _cool._"

"It's a what?"

"A Pensieve," said Padma again, glancing at Hermione. "My Aunty has one for work, to watch people's memories like a Visual Wireless. I think that's what inspired them, actually- "

"Yawn," droned Parvati, extricating Lavender from Hermione's waist. "Let's go get a Gillywater, Lav!"

Padma groaned. "It doesn't work like that..."

"Pipe down," called Snape from the edge of the crowd. "If you refuse to listen, you will neglect to learn."

He clapped his hands once. The melodious racket of the marketplace bent to his will, tumbling into a dour, weepy melisma as it flooded Hermione's ears.

Not a moment before she thought the noise might drive her mad, a raspy, ethereal voice - Braňka's, she assumed - began to trickle through, soothing her hearing in reedy, jangling tones:

_"I did quite love it... my place here at Šťastný prameň. I craved a home to call my own again, and I found it here. The staff at Koldovstoretz could not pay me enough gold to teach there, as their treatment of the lower-ranked students rivalled the cold of the wind Himself. Mother and Father succumbed to a deadly strain of Spattergroit during my schooling, so there was likewise little left for me there. But here, in this town, I was free from structure, free from pseudo-Augometric doctrine and, best of all, free from urban spellfire."_

As Braňka let out a drawn sigh, so came a shout far ahead. A dark-haired witch in a violet tunic, slight in frame, marched towards the fountain as she scolded the carefree youths.

"Fit," said Neville. Hermione rolled her eyes at the ensuing round of giggles and wolf-whistles.

_"We taught them all. I took the witches, Gibblegik the dwarves. For free, of course. But Gibblegik was a timid little thing, so it was up to me to discipline them."_

And discipline them she did; a flurry of golden needles - Stinging Hexes - screamed as they skidded against the ring of stone where the children sat. Knowing the wrath of the spell first-hand, Hermione reasoned that it wasn't a case of Braňka's aim being sub-par. No - the sight of the spell itself was sufficient to shuttle her pupils up the road, and likely straight into the classroom.

_"It was simple, but never routine. With new students came new challenges; with another visitor came another strand of gossip at market._

_"I suppose that we should have seen it coming."_

Hermione felt a chill brush past her skin as all vibrancy bled from the scene. The high street, all peeled paint and rotting beams, was populated by naught but a smattering of arid, crinkled leaves and gnarled twigs - all that remained of the once dense shrubbery.

They surrounded a townhouse now. It was further down the road from the fountain, the surface of which glistened a pearly white as it captured a misty pillar of moonlight. Eyes roving back to the front of the house, Hermione watched Braňka lean over the porch fence, pipe in hand as she glowered at a jerkin-clad figure standing before the gate.

"You're late," she said, betraying not a hint of her narrative counterpart's accent. Despite the occasion, Hermione had to marvel at the magic at play.

The figure, handsome-faced, smiled back as she removed her flatcap, revealing a crown of blond, close-cropped hair.

"Forgive me, Madam Ciernik," she replied, bowing. "It can take an age to leave the capital these days."

Braňka's lips twisted something ugly. "Perhaps your generals should invest in brooms."

_An officer, then, _thought Hermione, her stomach churning as she spotted a stout metallic rod at the witch's hip.

The officer laughed softly as she pushed past the gate.

"All in good time, Madam," she said, presenting the butt of her wand.

Whatever the gesture meant, Braňka was not moved. She regarded her pipe for a second, and returned it to her lips.

Neville hummed. "She ain't having it, looks like."

"What does it mean?" Hermione's ears twitched at the sound of Harry's voice, but her eyes stayed fixed to the spectral pair.

"Sign of respect, isn't it?" Neville murmured back. "I'm gonna say the Trishula don't get much of it, here."

The officer's smile broadened as she replaced her wand opposite the rod.

"The Bureau asked for you, Madam Ciernik," she said, climbing the porch stairs. "Is the Mayor not in?"

"She is unwell," replied Braňka, issuing wisps of smoke from her nostrils with a sharp sniff. "As is a third of the town."

The officer nodded tightly before gazing at the roof. "I am sorry to hear that. We have much to discuss, then."

"Let's." Braňka swayed to face the officer, leaning against the railing as she blew another plume to the side. "You're sending help, are you?"

The officer arched an eyebrow, cocking her head to the side.

"Are you not going to invite me in, Madam?"

Braňka tensed for a moment. Her gaze fell, and she set her pipe aside.

"Are you not going to remove the Repellent Array? We know that is why we haven't been able to leave."

The officer chose not to respond, though Hermione wasn't sure if she had mistaken her next breath for a shrug.

"When will you do it?" said Braňka, stepping forward. "When every single seedling is struck with blight? When the pox is rid of the last child? Why are you doing this?"

"Madam- "

"_Don't _insult me..."

_"That is where the trouble began," _said the narrator, drowning out her counterpart's clipped rebuttal. _"She offended my ears; how dare she expect me to entertain her, especially when our pleas for experts went ignored! And yet, the more that I decried the lack of assistance, the cooler she became."_

"We can help you, Madam Ciernik," said the officer, proffering a hand, "but we must have cooperation. A Curse - a very Dark one - has been effected over this settlement. We cannot do anything unless your Mayor relinquishes the Key to the town."

Braňka scoffed. "You think I don't know your game? I research spells for a living. I know a Curse from Durmstrang when I see one, warlock!"

"I repeat myself, Madam," replied the officer, her words noticeably stilted. "We are unable to act if you do not- "

"Submit? That is what you want, correct?"

"The Curse has spread!" The officer was hissing now, gesturing at the cracked soil beyond the porch. "Even the Muggles_,_ for all their squalor, know the air is amiss. This area is the source, and we will cleanse it, but we cannot proceed without magically-ordained right. Someone as well-read as yourself should realise this, Madam Ciernik!"

"I realise_,_" snarled Braňka, clenching her fists, "that I will never be rid of you people. I left everything I know because of you! Why do you think that there are rebels in Moscow, and Kiev, and Delhi and wherever else? Your 'cause' is a _cancer_\- "

As Braňka spat the last word, the officer rapped at the ground with her rod. A white-hot column of light hurtled towards Braňka, but she was prepared. Slashing her wand, she thwarted the magic's path with an invisible barrier, a shower of orange sparks cascading as raindrops against glass.

"Nice one," said Harry under his breath, Neville grunting next to him in affirmation.

"She used a Blasting Rod?_" _said Lavender, a hand flying to her mouth. "But there's _little kids_ in there- "

"Quiet!" barked Snape and Mr Watts together. Lavender grumbled something unintelligible to Parvati, who shrugged and sighed in response.

The wandlight took some time to fade; the officer's astonishment was clear as her face came into view.

She shook her head slowly, mouth still agape.

"You..." she finally said, eyes flitting between Braňka and her rod. "It is tragic, isn't it?"

She stowed away her rod, dusted off her jerkin, and turned towards the stairs. Braňka did not retaliate.

"To protect those who are little better than Muggles." The officer chuckled to herself as she headed for the gate, looking over her shoulder to regard Braňka with a toothy grin. "They will die, Madam Ciernik, and they will be forgotten. Pitiful as they were in life."

She slammed the gate shut behind her. "It's what it means to be mortal, after all!"

Hermione winced at the officer's bravado. The slight wasn't directed at her, but she could hardly ignore it. It stung her in a way that neither Smith, Greengrass or even Malfoy could hope to match, let alone best. Obnoxious though they were, none of them wished death upon her, or any Muggle for that matter.

It was queer - _funny_, even - that the callous humour of a mere memory felt that much more real.

_"Even after giving up this memory, I will never forget those words," _came the voice of Braňka, the narrator, as the scene began to dissolve. _"In a way, I suppose I take responsibility for them. Had I just stood by, or convinced the Mayor myself to surrender the Key... It wasn't a powerful enchantment, or bound to a larger settlement. I suppose some might say that I challenged her for nothing, but I know why I did what I did._

_"On the day that we realised the Repellent Array was fizzling, I knew something was wrong. Only half of us were left, I think, barely clinging to life thanks to mine and Gibblegik's efforts, but I was sure that the Trishula wouldn't retire their artifice without countering the Curse. Soon they realised that we couldn't leave, and so they called me for help."_

The sky was overcast, occasionally touched by patches of a flickering bluish haze, and the townspeople below rejoiced as a decrepit, balding dwarf dragged Braňka out to the centre, gripping her wand arm and pushing it upward.

_"I cast every revelatory Charm I knew, and it confirmed my fears. The Array hadn't weakened at all. However, while we could not leave, it appeared that anything could come inside._

_"I warned, I screamed, and I ran. Not everyone followed. The children we cared for were tucked away, and I did not delay in waking them."_

Panels and banisters filtered into being around them, and before long they stood in the middle of the townhouse front-room. A sizeable gathering of wizards, dwarves and a couple of elves were huddled together. Most looked bemused, though the children were especially wary. Braňka stood before them all, her brow creased and white as she stared at them, wide-eyed.

_"People were still coming through the door, so I waited. I tried to collect myself, because I knew that I wouldn't save everyone. It's a nasty feeling._

_"I heard them then, like a herd of cattle right above us."_

Hermione recognised the sound immediately, and frowned.

_Planes..._

_"I couldn't wait any longer. I had to raise the house's Shield right there and then. All the sound, all the light from outside vanished, and I cast my own Charms to add some shelter to the room. I didn't know what was coming for us, after all. If I did, I might have saved everyone."_

* * *

"_Muggles_ \- they're beasts!"

"The _tossers_."

"I didn't even know they could do stuff like that..."

Professor McGonagall stayed her wand, as did Snape's tongue. The second-years were thus allowed to air their frustrations.

Most of them were visibly shaken; some swore, and a handful wept. Hermione even caught a glimpse of an ashen Randall Ogden as he fled from the Hall, likely in search of the nearest pail. She too was outraged - _sickened - _by the aftermath they witnessed once Braňka and her neighbours left the Mayor's house, but the leaden weight that replaced her gut kept her silent and firmly rooted to the spot.

_Muggles did it._

The chloric brew of rubble, roasted flesh and what remained of the rancid fountain burned her nostrils even then. If those outside hadn't tried to save themselves - wandless and ignorant as they were - they would have been saved the wrath of Hell.

_Muggles did it, _she thought again, the image of walking corpses scorched in her memory.

To admit such a rotten, humbling thing stung at her eyes and parched her throat, but what troubled Hermione most was that she couldn't run.

Not like Randall.

She scoured the Hall for a sign of Sally-Anne, Kevin, Justin - all easily spotted, all stone-still and set apart from the circles of second-years trying and failing to comfort their peers. And then:

_"Apparo Extasim..."_

Hermione would never forget its warmth to her ears. The words were smooth and assonant, but _broad. _It diffused and echoed along the chamber, both rising and falling to cover each tile and smother every cry. She didn't register the magic of it until her eyes fell upon Professor Snape, who trained his wand yet again on the hole in the centre of the Hall.

She had come across it once or twice, in _Mind-Blowing Magicks_: it was the Cheering Charm. To witness it being used to such effect, and by Snape of all wizards, was laughable regardless of the context.

And yet, there were no more sobs, tears or shudders of grief. The students sat subdued on the Hall floor; subdued, but otherwise unperturbed.

"Why did they do it?" It would have to be Harry who spoke first. "What did Muggles have to do with anything, sir?"

Snape looked down his hooked nose for a short while.

"The Madam Ciernik would cross paths with the Trishula several times since," he said, crouching to recover the Pensieve's silvery contents. "She met that officer again upon the first of her engagements as, ironically, Durmstrang's Headmistress - that is, after the International Confederation won it back.

"The officer, now one of the Trishula's highest-ranked generals, told her this: 'Muggles know not magic, but they do fear it.' Simply put, they too suffered from Grindelwald's Curse as it spread, and approached it as they would any other threat. The High Warlock took advantage of that, and the Eastern Wastes lie as a relic of his counsel to their leaders. For Grindelwald, magic is might: there was and is no place for the weak."

They were promptly dismissed. As the bell rang, Hermione was reminded - and not without a pang of bitterness - of where she had to be next. She made for the North Wing with her head bowed, her mind singularly focused on Professor Burbage's protests of "Integration without subordination!" when she tripped over a stray tail of robes.

"_Sh_\- oh! You all right there, Hermione?"

Helped to her feet for the second time that day, Hermione felt her face flush with heat.

"Thanks," she said, shrinking as she met Ron and Neville's grins. Harry, naturally, was right next to them, his own expression unreadable.

Whether it was his declining to laugh at her misfortune or even the events they had just witnessed, Hermione suddenly felt compelled to apologise for her behaviour the other night. It was on the tip of her tongue, begging to be set free, and she almost would have if it weren't for-

"Hey, Harry!"

Hermione felt a bubbling stew replace the weight of guilt in her stomach. She harboured no ill will against Tracey Davis, but the Slytherin seldom walked alone.

No doubt Greengrass would have words for her.

Neville waved at them. "Davis, Greengrass. Where's your other wen- I mean, witch?"

Ron stifled a giggle, and though Hermione thought it distasteful, the puffing of Greengrass' cheeks were more than worth it.

Tracey raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were the _bottom,_ not the potty. I _asked_ for _Potty- _"

"All right, Tracey," said Harry, as he elbowed a guffawing Ron. "What's up?"

"Samhain, Potter?" said Greengrass, tapping her watch. "We'll be needing your wand again."

"Oi-oi!" Neville earned the other elbow for his trouble.

"As Daphne was saying," said Tracey, rolling her eyes, "we thought it would be nice to do the bonfire thing again. Maybe get more people round this time, you know?"

"We had half the year last time," said Ron.

Greengrass nodded. "And we'd like more. Problem?"

Ron tucked his chin, hands in pockets as he swayed on the spot. "Up to Harry, innit?"

Hermione stole a glance at Harry, whose glasses teetered on the tip of his nose as he scratched his head.

"Well... I've got a lot on, you know, so- "

"But it's Samhain!" said Tracey, clasping her hands. "And it'll be a long weekend too!"

"Can't someone else do it?" he said, wincing. "Everyone knows that Charm, now."

"Not the colouring one," said Greengrass, folding her arms. "You'll be ruining everyone's night."

"_Bit _harsh," he replied, though murmurs of agreement from Ron and Neville caused him to sigh.

He looked at Hermione for a good while. Despite their ongoing spat, she thought she understood: her incident with Malfoy aside, Harry's parents _died _that night. And so, she gave him a reassuring smile. He shouldn't feel pressured into doing anything, at the very least.

He grinned back. "Fine - I'll do it."

_Good stu- wait, _what_?_

Tracey squealed with delight. "Wicked! Thanks, Harry." She caught him in a brief hug before skipping off to the Courtyard.

Greengrass, however, pranced off at a considerably more sedate pace.

"_Bye, _Harry," she said with an impish smile, blowing kisses until a scandalised Tracey returned to hoist her away.

"_O-_grade nutter, she is," muttered Ron, somewhat cowed as he eyed Hermione. "You, er... you coming this time, then?"

Her tongue was tied. Harry, dazed, was evidently reeling from Tracey's ambush as Neville poked him.

She cleared her throat, and turned to face the corridor ahead. "Um... I- I'm late. Sorry!"

Losing herself in the ever-growing current of pupils, Hermione reasoned that she had her own issues to tackle. Professor Burbage would be assigning mentors today, and God forbid that she would end up with the hazel-eyed girl who dragged her in the first time.

_Clearwater. _

She huffed. The name implied delicacy, but the Ravenclaw Prefect was anything but.

* * *

He felt the mirror in his palm bend threateningly under the pressure of his fingertips.

"I swear, Uncle Algie - I never left it there!"

_"Oh, it's a tricky one, Neville-boy... Your Nan wants your hide, I tell you!"_

Neville was gutted.

It had been a good few months so far. Hannah was his Vitalemy partner, Quidditch practice wasn't nearly as hard as he thought it would be, and as of this week, Bellatrix Yaxley was still a no-show at the Duelling Club (meaning Draco hadn't turned up, either).

Not to mention he had been rid of the Grimoire. How on earth did it end up at home of all places?

_"Now are you absolutely sure,"_ said his Uncle, prodding his side of the mirrors with a finger, _"that there isn't anything you aren't telling me?"_

"Positive." He wasn't about to tell him that he lost it. A Stinger was enough; no pocket money was just torture.

His Uncle stared down at the mirror, then exhaled, rubbing his chin.

_"It's a real tricky one," _he said, looking over his shoulder. _"Night now, Eric - anyway, the book... I guess one of your old man's ancestors might've Charmed it to fly home in case of danger... Wild knows there's enough of it about right now. Your Nan's owling it back with some cake, by the way. She really cares about you, lad."_

_Perfect. _"Yeah, I know. Oh yeah - just one thing?"

_"Yes, Neville?"_

"How's everything at the Ministry? We heard about that Runcorn fella."

The lighting from the mirror shifted blue; his Uncle had just left the building.

_"Cor," _he said, blowing out a helpless breath. _"That's a big 'one thing', Neville-boy."_

"It'll be on the Wireless eventually," said Neville, Ron's off-hand comments still fresh in his mind. He'd heard it from his big brother, Percy: Arthur Weasley was calling foul play.

_"They're calling it a suicide,"_ murmured his Uncle, and a host of warm colours flooded the mirror. He was probably there for a date, knowing him. _"Terrible business, lad. We weren't friends, but he had a family. His poor kids. Poor _Hilda._"_

Suddenly, Neville was sorry for asking.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that, Uncle Algie."

_"Neither did I, lad," _he replied, though his eyes were elsewhere now. _"Neither did I."_

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **Crikey... it's done. This chapter really kicked my arse. As always, I'm as thankful as ever for all of you who are reading this, and especially for putting up with my update schedule/pacing. For those who are following it, I'm sorry: it's not fun when a story that you're mildly interested in dries up like a... prune? Anyway, I've been spending a lot of my free time mapping out plotlines for the sequels and how it all ties together, so you might be stuck with me for a good while. If you don't give up first, that is! Again, thanks for reading!


	24. Priscilla Breaks A Leg

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Harry gets soaked, Susan sneaks a tipple, and Hermione has a check-up.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four - Priscilla Breaks A Leg  
**

_"I wrote _'Clear As Mud'_ for a lot of people, to be completely straight with you. For the Muggle-borns? Big middle finger to the old-style Pure-bloods? Yeah. For half-breeds - I don't really like that word but whatever, but yeah, sure... Not trying to dismiss anything, don't get me wrong, but that's only like scratching the surface of what we were trying to get at... actually, yeah! I know who I had in mind when I wrote it._

_"I had a mate back in school. We were in different circles though, if you get my drift. But people expected a lot from him, is what got me. The best or the worst - depended on your take on things, I guess. But he got it from all sides. His family, his other mates, everyone. One day we were by the lake, burning a sack of mallowsweet after our Charms O.W.L, and he says to me, 'Oi, Stu? How come everything's always so cut-and-dried for you?' Bear in mind this kid's a hundred times more well off than me and he's aced all his tests. So I said to him, 'It isn't', and I wrote _'Clear'_ that night."_

~ Stubby Boardman on writing _"Clear as Mud" _in _Wizards Started Disco: Mysteries in Music _(1984)

* * *

_"... and it truly is a terrible, _terrible _loss. I don't believe it's quite sunk in yet- "_

_"Does the Ministry suspect that any foul play was involved, sir?"_

_"I do apologise, but I have somewhere else to be. Now if you'd excuse me- "_

_"Mr Crouch? If you'd just answer- "_

"Just turn the blasted thing off, already!"

Albus' gaze darted to Alastor's shadowed form, stirring with irritation at the far side of the room.

A word with Aberforth about the lighting was in order, perhaps.

"You could do it yourself," said Algie from the opposite end, smile upturned as Alastor growled something undoubtedly obscene under his breath.

Just then, Albus caught a sniff of displeasure to his right, and the Wireless' signal fizzled to a lull not a moment later.

"There," said Minerva, wand replaced beneath her tartan outer robe. "Back to business, I would think."

"Agreed," said Albus, leaning forward with his head turned. "Alastor - if you would?"

Truth be told - as the grizzled warlock stumbled to his feet to recall the week's events - Albus had heard it all, and then some. Albert Runcorn's death marked just two days short of a year since Ignatius' passing.

It also spelled a dead end for their most promising lead.

As he had feared from the outset, the culprit's vaporous, almost whimsical rationale finally slipped free from his grasp. Albus gradually garnered faith in a pretence of reason from the 'Albatross' as the months drew by, what with the death of Henleigh and the manifesto thereafter, but Runcorn's demise changed everything. The oft-negligent Inspector appeared to be simply that: no longer did he fit the narrative of a pro-EMR saboteur. Even the prospect of his sympathy for the Trishula seemed unlikely, now.

"... so yeah, it does look like we've arrived at square one, you might say." Alastor inhaled, resting his knuckles on the table. "Except."

A gnarled, snaggle-toothed grin spread across Alastor's jaw as twenty pairs of eyes swivelled his way.

" 'Except', Alastor?" said Kingsley, squaring his shoulders as his elbows slid from the table.

"Except," said Alastor, crossing his arms, "Runcorn's now dead. It _fits_ \- just not in the way we thought."

The Order of the Phoenix was struck by a palpable silence for the umpteenth time that evening, though it wasn't long before it was perforated by a snort from the middle of the table.

"You're mental." Hestia shielded her brow with a hand as she shook her head. "I knew it was a mistake putting him in charge."

"You watch your mouth," snarled Miss Tonks from Albus' left. "We wouldn't even _have _a lead if it weren't for Moody!"

"If that's what you want to call it," the older witch replied, huffing. "Maybe if you took your head out the clouds for a second- "

"And jam it up your arse, yeah? I'm all right."

Hearing a rumbling chuckle past Miss Tonks, Albus sent a surreptitious wink in Donald Urquhart's direction.

"Now that's quite enough," said Minerva, quietly, though it was more than sufficient to subdue to the quarrelling pair. "Please, Alastor - before next year."

Alastor sneered. "Cheers. Like I said, it fits - more than I'd like it to. This ain't a rogue faction's inside job. Nah - it's personal, this is."

Algie sniggered. "It wasn't a rare thing to want to see Runcorn dead, you know."

He pursed his lips soon after, his frame visibly strained under the weight of the Order's stares.

He threw his arms aside. "Just saying what we're all thinking..."

Remus Lupin, all but forgotten as he stood vigil by the moss-peppered window, cleared his throat.

"So... what now, then?"

Alastor's head bobbed up; he glanced at Albus, and then at Remus, regarding him with a smirk.

"I was hoping _you'd _ask, boy. Ready to meet your old pal again?"

Remus met Alastor's look with narrowed eyes.

"What do you... you mean Peter? But we know he isn't- "

"Never said he was. But he's out there for a reason, and I wanna know why."

_As do I, _mused Albus. Alastor hadn't forced him to neglect the search for their long-lost comrade - he was often prone to such habits, completely independent of others. It was unbecoming for the amount of responsibility he assigned himself, to say the least.

Remus cocked his head, tongue in cheek. "Can't argue with that. Going alone, am I?"

The room fell quiet yet again, causing Albus a pang of regret for the young wizard. Algie had seen to it that his condition remained stable: what was there to fear?

"I'd want to, lad," said the Unspeakable, grimacing. "But you know how it is down at HQ. They miss you, by the way."

Remus snorted. "Feeling's mutual."

"I'll go." Every eye fell on Miss Tonks, and her shoulder-length locks appeared to dull a tad.

"And why are you so happy to help?" asked Hestia, upper lip curled.

"I'm on leave for a month starting next week," she said, turning to Remus. "Wouldn't mind keeping you company."

Minerva frowned. "This isn't some pleasure cruise, Miss Tonks. Pettigrew might not be our wizard, but he should still be treated with the utmost caution."

"Lass' an Auror-to-be, no?" said Donald. "I say let her go. She'll keep his wits about 'im."

There was no protest (save an eye-rolling Hestia), leaving Albus to take his cue.

"It is settled, then," he said, clapping his hands. "Let us take flight!"

Diffuse cracks of Apparition followed a round of mumbled farewells. Minerva harrumphed.

"No class, the lot of them," she said, striding towards the door. "Are stairs below them, so?"

Elphias giggled.

"Please don't," sighed Minerva, shutting the door behind her.

Albus looked over his shoulder to inspect the darkest corner of the room.

"You were late, Messr Doge."

"Had to scribble an extra piece for the _Prophet_,_" _replied Elphias as he waddled over to the empty seat beside Albus. "Our Rita might be leaving the Isles for good!"

Albus chuckled, a tired smile creeping over his lips. "Thank the Wild for the smallest graces."

Elphias laughed in kind, though his revelry was cut short as he searched his friend's face.

"You're not right, are you, Albus?"

Albus shook his head. "I do worry. Just a little."

There was nothing for it: he would have to locate the Shroud. Waiting on Harry was fruitless and far, _far_ too cruel.

"Have you much on tomorrow, Elphias?"

Elphias rubbed his chin. "Oh - can't say so. You're in need of a hand, I gather?"

"Of a sort," he said, fingering his wand. "I am to visit the Hollow tomorrow. I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye on the Forest for me."

* * *

"Rise and shine, Potter. _Aguamenti!_"

Harry awoke with a spluttering start.

His back was unbearably stiff, and his eyes burned under the scrutiny of a harsh yellowed light, as did his skin. He winced at the graze from a prickly, ice-cold lattice, elastic rows pressing over his cheek as he forced himself up.

He'd fallen asleep in the changing room. Again.

"Wh- wha," he blubbered, grasping the air for Hollygalleon as he racked his still-sluggish brain for the Stinging Hex's incantation.

"Easy, Harry." A pair of glasses fell into his open palm. "It's just me, Cedric."

Snapping his spectacles on with scrambled fingers, Harry glowered at the chortling Hufflepuff as he leapt off of the bench.

"Thanks. Wouldn't mind drying me off, would you?"

Cedric cooed. "Never thought you'd ask, babes. _Vento cum calorem._"

A swirling blur sprung from Cedric's wand and around Harry's soaked uniform. Tensing as a spout of steam billowed from his jerkin, Harry took a deep breath and glanced at his watch.

"Seven." His heart skipped a beat. "Shit - how long have we got?"

"Calm down," said Cedric, chuckling. "They only arrived ten minutes ago. Seats aren't even half-full yet!"

_I'd rather the seats were empty, to be honest._

_"Quit your whinging,"_ breathed Holly. _"This'll be the most fun I've had all month!"_

He supposed that his wand was right. They had practised in fear of what this shadowy Patrol-school might have in store for them: tonight would see how well their efforts fared.

Harry sucked his teeth. "Cool. Where's Bones at, then?"

"Hall with Kaaj and Ainsley," said Cedric, his smile twisting a little. "She might've walked in on you first."

"So she's off bitching, you mean."

"Yep."

They laughed; that Susan hadn't thought to Hex him was something of a good omen, he believed. In fact, upon her return with Ainsley and Kaaj - two-thirds of their sister trio, Team Echo - she was actually _beaming._

"We've got this one in the bag," she said, flicking her hair as she plopped onto the bench.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You reckon?"

"We saw their carriages pull in," said Kaaj, perching on a nearby railing. "Dopey faces, all of 'em."

Ainsley tutted. "Don't listen to him. We really can't take any chances with this lot."

"Scared, MacDougal?" said Susan, batting her eyelids.

"No, but they _are _from a Patrol-school. They don't learn anything but how to duel!"

That was what worried Harry the most: the Squad only practised for four hours on a heavy week.

Cedric hummed. "I don't think we've got much to worry about."

Ainsley gave him a hard stare, which he met with a shrug.

"They're a Patrol-school. So what? They'll know like, what - four Curses at most?"

"You don't know that- "

"It's a fair bet," said Kaaj. "My cousin had to train with a couple when she joined the Hit Wizards. Some of 'em didn't even know how to Disarm!"

" 'Cause they're not supposed to," said Ainsley, visibly shrinking. If she meant what Harry feared, he prayed to Woden that she was wrong.

_"You pray to Woden now, Harry?"_

_Shut it._

Then again, as anxious as he was, Harry wasn't especially afraid of losing. If anything, he craved the exhilarating uncertainty that a real, gloves-off competition offered. It was, after all, the only rush of adrenaline that would allow him to forget the ever-looming task his father set for him, however fleeting.

_Why Samhain of all nights? And why won't he tell me what it is, yet?_

_"Forget about that, idiot," _said Holly with a light sting. _"Let's just have fun tonight."_

The klaxons blazed through the entrance to the Studio, and Harry felt his stomach churn. He grinned.

* * *

The klaxons would lead a rondo that night.

"Bollocks," squeaked Flitwick. There were a couple of awkward shuffles in the spectators' stands, but the Professor's profanity went largely ignored.

The whole Squad might have laughed were the circumstances different, but the air of the Crimson Studio was aflush with charged hostility. Harry shifted in his seat; whether it was his Wandsong or otherwise, he could have sworn that the Hex-Zappers were beginning to weep under the pressure.

As the spotlights came full circle, the squabbling of the judges' panel was smothered by the din of a hundreds-strong audience. The latter exploded into uproar as three green flags were Conjured against a sour-faced official's red.

They sided with the away team.

**"Beat - four to four. Match point."**

A titan of a wizard with close-cropped hair embraced his companions in a bear-like hug. The Hogwarts crowd looked on, crestfallen as the Wimbourne College bellowed in triumph - swathed in brown and gunning for gold.

According to Priscilla Yaxley's creation myth, the infamous Patrol-school was little more than a dumping ground. Offspring of murderers, cannibals and former warlocks-turned-Inferi all, the fledgling magicians were taken in by the Ministry-run academy to bolster the bottom rung of a dwindling post-war Law Department.

_"Uncouth, uninhibited and likely unwashed,"_ her mother purportedly told her.

Harry wondered if Yaxley, staring down her opponents with a moistened brow and trembling wand-hand, still put faith in her mother's words.

**"FIRE!"**

The three wrists of Wimbourne swept through the air as one, and a blizzard of red and white spellfire spirited over the stone circle in pursuit of the Hogwarts trio.

Sliding forward with sparks at her heels, Matilda Montague deflected the spells sent Yaxley's way while their third wand, the stocky Duncan Urquhart, fashioned a hasty Shield Charm to cover the remainder.

The tension in the stands was likewise brought to boil.

"They just need _one _opening," said Cedric through his teeth, clutching Harry's arm-rest with an iron-like grip. Susan suddenly yelped from his right, causing the whole row to shift their attention sideways.

"Oi, you knob!" she blustered, jabbing the older Hufflepuff's arm. "Let go of my knee!"

Cedric's hand went flying as he was jostled into Harry.

"Sorry."

If anything, Cedric had been right. Wimbourne's repertoire was lacking, preferring instead to overwhelm the home team with an avalanche of Stunning Spells and Pounding Hexes - that is, until a barrage of bright blue sparks gouged a human-sized impression in one of the outer Hex-Zappers.

**"Foul! No penalty - pace thrice back." **

"A Trouncing Curse!" hissed Cedric. "That could've crushed a bone or seven."

Susan yawned. "Piss-poor aim, Diggsy," she said, kicking back into her seat. "Told you we've got it in the bag!"

Wimbourne's supporters wouldn't agree, Harry felt. Their side of the crowd appeared to relish the cloddish war of attrition.

Wave after wave of bolts rained dozens strong over the Hogwarts trio with no retaliation, and if Montague's slackened, increasingly agitated posture was of any indication, her brain was doing overtime to curb the assault.

Urquhart seemed to acknowledge that; as his defence was nearly shattered by a crimson haze of Stunners, he threw down his Shield Charm, inching forward to mirror Montague's Parries.

"Took his time, didn't he?" mumbled Cedric.

"What?" said Susan, craning forward.

Harry nodded, pointing at Urquhart. "Threw down his Shield. Trying to make an opening, maybe?"

"For Wild's sake then, Prissy," grumbled Susan, gnawing at her thumb. "Spark one off already..."

But Yaxley didn't hear her; she was a deer before headlights as Wimbourne's torrent of spells crashed against her comrades' counters.

The brown-clad warlocks refused to relent, their wands held high and forever aflame. But as Urquhart pressed ahead, wand and off-hand throttling every fledgling Curse he could spot, the cluster of spells gradually veered away from the centre.

"Yes!" cried Ainsley behind Harry. "Just time it, _time _it..."

Lo and behold, it worked: Montague and Urquhart Parried in tandem, and Wimbourne's next wave of spells was forked aside.

"That's it," Harry heard Toothill whisper fervently from the row in front. "Split 'em down the middle! _Come_ on, Yaxley!"

The dark-haired Slytherin leapt at the opportunity, feinting with a left sweep of her wand arm: her Stunning Spell sang as it curved toward the centre of the platform at the last moment. Her target slashed his wand downwards, but the pinch in his brow betrayed his lack of faith-

_"Expulso!"_ squawked another voice, just as Yaxley's own spell left her lips.

An ultramarine flash engulfed the stone circle, followed by a sickening _crunch._

The spell-light dissipated, and the audience fell silent. Harry was roused from his stupor by Susan, who shouted something as she aimed a finger at the platform.

A crowd began to gather, though it was quickly broken apart as a band of green-robed figures swarmed the Hogwarts edge of the stone circle.  
The lofty Wimbourne wizard, now fully prone, did not so much as stir. But as Yaxley was Levitated off-stage, leg in splint, the audience had no breath to speak.

They had eyes only for the unconscious boy's team mate, ashen-faced and mouth agape as her wand clattered to the floor.

Toothill was already hot on the Healers' heels when Merrythought whirled around, fixing Cedric with a hard stare.

"Foxtrot on. Now."

They didn't need to be told twice. As they marched down the aisle to the platform, however, Harry froze at the sound of the horns.

His eyes whipped to the scoreboard above, and the numbered glass cylinders began to spin.

**WIMBOURNE 3**

**HOGWARTS 2**

His insides plummeted, and the audience erupted anew. Naturally, Wimbourne's symphony of jubilation drowned out Hogwarts' vocal rancour, for Team Foxtrot's match would be the last of the night.

As she blew her whistle, the ruddy-faced umpire stopped them with a hand.

A phantom theatre of the previous round erupted from the platform, sealing the bitter verdict.

They watched again, forlorn as the last-ditch sparks of the Trouncing Curse clipped an ethereal Yaxley's shin, a mere blink before her Stunner swerved into her opponent's chest.

The luminous image then faded, and with it Harry's hope.

"Looks like we'll draw, then," said Cedric, flexing his off-hand as he twirled his wand. Harry and Susan shared a look.

Holly heaved a petulant sigh. "Why _can't you be like _him_?"_

_Because I can't cast without moving my mouth._

_"And whose fault is that?"_

"Let's just have a good time," said Harry aloud, winking at Susan's arched eyebrow.

He came to regret his bravado once the image frittered away. Dull, dark eyes, framed by a cruelly chiselled face leered at him from the other side of the platform.

A pair of wafer-thin lips spread into a grin, but her eyes did not follow.

"Half Dementor, that one," said Susan from the side of her mouth. She then winced as the willowy witch was flanked by two duellists - one burly, one small (but hard-faced) - also in Wimbourne brown.

"What's wrong?" said Harry. "It's not like his muscles are magic."

"They might be if he's part-Troll," she whispered. "Or giant."

Cedric laughed.

"On me," called the umpire from the platform, snapping her fingers. As the teams converged at the circle's core, Harry felt a tingle at his side.

_What?_

_"It's a big crowd. What if Tracey's out there?"_

_I'll blame you if we lose. Or Susan._

_"Her mentor just lost a leg. At least she _has_ an excuse."_

The umpire looked them each up and down, and turned to the Wimbourne trio.

"You're three for two," she said, digging out a Sickle from her hose pocket. "Heads or tails?"

The Wimbourne witch clicked her tongue. "Heads."

The umpire flipped the coin. As it settled into her palm, Harry shuddered at the bucking silver unicorn's head.

The umpire nodded. "Same rules?"

"No." The girl smiled. "Coach says it's one round of Glory."

The umpire barked a laugh. "He's confident," she said, peeping over at a short old wizard who was leaning against a staff twice his size.

Harry suppressed a groan. _Sixty seconds of pure chance._

He heard Susan swear through gritted teeth, and for good reason. "Glory" rules meant they were at the mercy of the judges' scores, and even though they were on home territory, the panel wasn't.

They had chosen their favourites already.

"Can we get a minute?" asked Cedric, flashing a smile at the umpire. She frowned for a second, but nodded her assent. Cedric swept Harry and Susan aside.

"Okay," he said, inhaling. "Change of plan. I want you back on my left, Harry. I'll hit 'em hard - just try and throw them off balance, and Parry what you can."

Harry swallowed. "Sure."

"Suze, keep your Freezers up," said Cedric, casting a furtive look over his shoulder. "And aim for the face."

Susan's eyes, glazed until that point, shot open.

"Wicked," she said, the picture of glee as Merrythought finally reached the edge of the platform.

"How're you lot feeling?" she asked, looking up at them with a grimace. "Didn't mean to snap at you."

"No worries, Coach," said Cedric, squeezing his team mates by the shoulders. "We've got this one, haven't we?"

_No, we don't._

Weak as they were, his legs brought him to heel at the screech of the umpire's whistle. It was then, as he and Susan shared a final passing glance, that Harry realised he did indeed care about losing.

He cared a lot.

"This is a single round, one minute bout," said the umpire, eyes flitting between Cedric and the stony-faced witch. "Cast at will, stop at each Beat. Three Conquests is a win. Happy?"

_No._

"On my mark... salute! All wands on ring three."

He shuffled his feet to the outer ring and, against his gut instinct, loosened his grip on Holly's handle.

**"FIRE!"**

A silver Curse soared just wide of his temple. Hairs standing on end, he crouched on impulse, and the Studio became a pulsing blur as a torrent of blood filled his ears to the brim.

Holly gushed. "_You felt that one too?"_

Harry could feel the bubbly beginnings of a laugh, but it was quashed as soon as Susan cried:  
_  
"Immobul-"_

_"Propulso!"_

The witch on the Wimbourne side - the leader, he assumed - Parried Susan's Charm in a manner that was completely novel to him. The stringy blue spell writhed and swirled as it sprang back on itself, forcing Team Foxtrot to disperse as its residue washed over them.

Grinding the balls of his feet against the platform as he recovered from the roll, Harry swiftly Parried another Hex, clawing his off-hand to fizzle a second headed for Cedric. Taking just an instant to relish the buzz of peril coursing through his veins, Harry stole a glimpse at the Hufflepuff as he Transformed a tangle of rope into a wispy trail of smoke.

A perfect set-up.

With a serpentine flourish, Harry cast a Puzzling Jinx as Cedric fanned the fumes, ensnaring their opponents in the illusory composition-

_"Vento!" _cried the Wimbourne witch, wand arm high and eyes firmly shut. The curtain of smoke was cleaved in two, while a grunted _"Finite!" _snuffed out the Puzzler's white sparks. Wimbourne Drove ahead as a unit, and a fleet of gilded missiles converged with a rosy jet of light as they hurtled toward the the centre.

_"Propulso-propulso!" _hissed Harry, diving to his right and barrelling past his mentor to swat the spellfire aside. Goosebumps ran the length of his forearm, and Harry rejoiced for a fleeting moment at the sound of crashing cymbals as the spells splashed across the platform.

But his eyes deceived him; a final golden flash ran past his cheek, and a fiery jolt of pain wracked the left side of his face.

**"Time, forty-nine! Wimbourne, one Beat!"**

"Looks like you missed one," said the larger boy, sniggering as Harry nursed a burgeoning welt on his cheek.

Something yanked him by the collar.

"_Finite - _The fuck d'you think you're doing?" spat Cedric. Harry made to glare at him as the smarting ebbed away, but the older boy's crumpled frown gave him pause.

"I- " He gulped. "I was trying- "

"Then stop," said Cedric, shoving him onto the second ring. "This is for real, remember?"

Harry peered over at Susan. She shook her head.

_"Great going, idiot," _muttered Holly.

Harry bit his tongue, ignoring a burning flush of anger and embarrassment as he readied his posture. He would _not _take the blame for a loss tonight.

_Be like Agyeman,_ he thought as the umpire rolled back her shoulders. _Be the Cavalier._

**"FIRE!"**

A cacophony of strings sounded from Harry's right as Susan's Freezing Charm sailed through the air, but the other witch was prepared yet again. Her Parrying Charm sliced clean through the bright blue threads, ending the spell before its time and leaving her teammates to reprise their endless current of Stingers while she traded Hexes with Cedric.

"_Morde-"_

_"Propulso!"_

_"Mord-"_

_"Propulso!"_

_"MOR-"_

Harry thrice felt the needles shatter against his Parries, and the slight-framed boy ahead flared his nostrils amidst the hail of golden pellets.

A momentary smile of relief crept over Harry's lips as it became clear the frustration was mutual. They had no plots to speak of, and the stagnant exchange wore thin even for them.

_"Take a chance,_ _then!" _urged Holly.

He did. Throwing caution (and whatever his teammates might have hit him with) to the wind, Harry Drove forward with another Parry, wheeling past another stray Stinger as he drew Holly behind his ear:

_"Pulto!"_

He snapped his wrist downward, and the Pounding Hex screeched past a gobsmacked Cedric before the smallest Wimbourner dove a splinter's width out of its path. Incensed, Harry whipped his arm to send another when a coil of blue threads snaked themselves around his opponent's legs, suspending him mere inches above the ground.

Susan cackled.

**"Time-"**

But not everyone heard the klaxons, apparently. The Wimbourne witch snarled, lunging forward with a Hex on her tongue:

_"Furnu-"_

_"Propulso!" _Harry exclaimed the incantation as his fingers clambered through Death's Grip. The brown, squelching mass that encircled the witch's wand did not look friendly in the slightest. It imploded with a faint _pop,_ and the immediate threat went with it.

**"TIME - thirty-five! Penalty, Wimbourne! Hogwarts, one Beat!"**

Cedric eyed them both, his brow high.

"Nice one."

Harry's mouth twitched up in response, but he stood firm: Wimbourne wouldn't dare pull punches this time around. He gave a cursory nod to both of his teammates, sliding into his marker on the inner ring as he stared down the seething witch in front of them.

As she readied her stance in kind, Harry was suddenly reminded of Madam Ciernik. He'd been trying to do the same thing she had all evening.

Holly thrummed in his palm. "There's _no one to save here, Harry."_

**"FIRE!"**

_"Serpensortia!"_

The Wimbourne witch gnashed her teeth as a shiny black adder leapt from her wand, its fangs bared and slithering towards Harry at a rapid pace.

The klaxon did not sing.

The lights dimmed as swiftly as the gasps from the stands, and Harry felt his skin crawl. His legs began to give way.

The adder pounced. Harry's knees were sinking...

_"You will _not _die here!" _

A prickling sensation ran the length of his arm. He jerked it forward, and the adder danced with it, undulating as its head swerved from side to side: almost as fluid in substance as it was in motion.

_"_Do _something, idiot!" _screamed Holly.

His tongue lashed out in response.

_"V-VERTO!"_

Harry's wand bucked. His senses were flooded with light and laughter.

The Wimbourne leader glowered - more at the flailing, bright red jelly-snake between them than anything else - and in that split second, Harry saw his chance.

_"Depulso!"_

* * *

"Of all the things you could've Banished... the snake? _Really_, Potter?"

"Into her face, no less! Win's a win, though - good stuff, guys."

As the last few members of the Squad filed out of the changing rooms, Harry took a generous swig of pumpkin juice from his canteen. Cool to the touch, he sank into the bench with an ecstatic breath as the beverage slaked his thirst.

"I actually can't believe you," said Susan wryly as she tucked in her cravat.

_"Neither can I,"_ said Hollygalleon.

And Harry made three.

Long after the final klaxon sounded, Harry maintained that the choice of Transfiguration was entirely Holly's doing. She denied it with gusto.

_"If it was me," _the wand had muttered as the judges gave their scores, _"I'd have set fire to the damned thing!"_

Quite.

_At least it got the job done, _he thought with a smile as he packed away his uniform.

"Oi, Bones! Potter!"

Harry tilted his head, nodding at Urquhart who stood by the doorframe.

"Cheers for tonight," said Urquhart with a sheepish look before he turned to leave. "Could've been worse than a draw, eh?"

"Would've been even better if he'd won _his _match," said Susan, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Harry wanted to say that Yaxley was okay - that it wasn't Urquhart's fault, even - but the tartness in Susan's tone made him think better of it.

He shrugged as he pulled himself up. "Maybe. Didn't exactly win ours by a landslide, did we?"

"True," said Susan, sticking out her lip. "It'll take that girl ages to get all the gunk out of her hair, though."

"It was just _jelly... _I think," said Harry, looking at Susan askance. "I'd feel bad if she couldn't just Scour it."

Susan quirked an eyebrow.

"Speaking of spells," she said, poking his side as they left the room, "that snake got you well spooked. What kind of Dark wizard are you, anyway?"

Harry held his tongue. He would readily admit that the Wandsong had its drawbacks, and that Conjured snake frazzled him in a fashion that only magic could. Although, while his condition wasn't quite secret, Harry preferred to avoid broaching any of his quirks around Susan - supernatural or no.

"I thought I was done for," he said, wrinkling his nose. "Did you see its fangs?"

"Those wobbly red things, you mean?"

Harry snorted. "Piss off."

Taking a left towards the Studios annex, they spotted Cedric talking in hushed tones with a blotchy-faced Montague.

Susan made a strangled noise.

"It's _Prissy, _isn't it?" She swore, clutching the strap of her bag. "What else would she be..."

Cedric must have heard her; he flashed a rueful smile as he turned to face them.

"All right, guys?" he said, waving them over. "Took your time- "

"How is she?" blurted out Susan. That she almost choked on the words wasn't lost on Harry.

Cedric frowned briefly, opening his mouth as he glanced back at Montague.

"Ah," he said softly, running a hand through his hair. "Yaxley's fine, Suze. Might be on crutches for a few days, though."

She let out a deep breath, clasping her hands in some prayer of thanks. To Woden or Tiw, Harry didn't know.

"Um, yeah," continued Cedric, voice strained as he turned back to the Slytherin. "'Tilda here's just a little... disappointed."

"She's gonna blame me for that one," said Montague thickly, sniffing into a sleeve. "I didn't even see the other girl raise her wand!"

Cedric placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't sweat it," he said, grimacing. "She took a chance there. Chin up - we've still got a vat of Butterbeer to get through!"

Susan's eyes narrowed a little. "For what?"

Montague stopped sniffling for a moment. "They don't know, yet?" she asked Cedric, brow furrowed.

Cedric winked.

"Let's get a move on," he said, jerking a thumb to a cabinet on Susan's right.

Having made liberal use of the Marauder's Map in the past couple of months, Harry was accustomed to finding secret passages behind portraits, though the prospect of the Castle holding mysteries left uncharted by the artifice hadn't really occurred to him. It was foolish, he understood, as Montague inserted her wand into what he assumed was an ordinary keyhole.

James Potter, for all his accolades, was still a newborn in the face of a millennium's worth of magic... but wasn't he once a Squad member, too?

_"Maybe it wasn't here back then?"_

_Or maybe he didn't trust his friends. He doesn't exactly trust me, does he?_

"You're in for a real treat," breathed Cedric as Montague parted the cabinet doors.

It was empty.

"You two first," she said with a sigh.

Harry stared at it. The cabinet stared back.

"Is it invisible?" he asked Montague. "The Butterbeer, I mean."

Although she was a seventh year, Harry was made painfully aware of the height difference between them when Montague promptly lifted him onto the bottom board, Susan cackling all the while.

"You too, Suze," said Cedric, nudging Susan forward. She fell quiet, naturally.

Cedric prodded her again, gently. "Go on."

"It's not bad, actually," said Harry, smiling as he sat cross-legged inside the cabinet. He patted the empty space beside him; if nothing else, it coaxed a sniffling chuckle out of Montague.

Susan complied, albeit at a timid pace, and knelt next to Harry. Montague then flicked her wand upward, and darkness overcame them.

"I don't like these things," said Susan, punting Harry's shin as she fidgeted around.

_"I think she's lying," _whispered Holly with a giggle.

_I'll say._ _She's finally got somewhere to get rid of my bo-_

The floor of the cabinet began to quake, soon followed by the walls - and a frightful shriek from Susan's end. The trembling doors were the last to join in all of the commotion, though Harry suspected that Susan's frenzied kicks were a major contributing factor there.

_"Alohomora!" _belted Susan, aiming another heel at the latch with a high-pitched grunt as the Charm's whistles faded into the ether. "_Finite! _Ugh - fucking _do _something, Potter!"

With a final moaning lurch, the cabinet settled into place. Susan unleashed a rally of fists upon the doors, only to tumble out headfirst as they burst open.

She was met with applause: slurred and tarried, but applause nonetheless.

The annex was gone. Flint and sandstone were usurped by carpet and crystal in a spacious, smalt-lit room, as loud as it was brilliant. They were greeted by a few dozen flushed faces of Squad members, teachers and a few that he didn't recognise, but the glass-laden walls made for a semblance of hundreds.

_The reflections don't match, though..._

"Miss Bones! Miss _Bones,_" gushed a tiny witch in a wide-brimmed hat as she sauntered towards the cabinet. "How delightful to see you again! Enjoying the comps, are we?"

Swinging his legs over the board to sidle past them, Harry drank in his surroundings as he stalked the ever-elusive vat of Butterbeer. Needless to say, he had a lot more on his plate - the Grimoire wouldn't let him forget that - but what point was there in protecting his own life if he couldn't enjoy it for a night?

He fondly recalled Phil and Greg smuggling a can of Foster's into the home one night when a beefy hand clapped the back of his neck.

"Potter! Welcome the Blue Studio," said Urquhart, grinning as Harry turned around. "We wanted to break you and Bones last summer, but the Chief thought it was too early. Tradition and all that rot."

Harry gave him a faint nod, just as an even more imposing figure beside the Slytherin caught his eye.

"Harry Potter - nicely done, laddie!" boomed the bald, burly red-bearded wizard, crushing Harry's hand into his own. "'Hark the Baron' indeed!"

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," said Harry, masking a wince with a smile. "You're Duncan's father, I assume?"

The wizard guffawed, smacking a quizzical Urquhart on the back.

"Donald Urquhart at your service, Mr Potter! Duncan 'ere is my grandson."

Harry had to stop himself from squinting: not a line or spot marred the senior Urquhart's brow.

_"Wizards live for yonks, idiot! Wasn't your granddad almost two hundred?"_

It made some sense, Harry supposed. By all means, that Dumbledore didn't resemble a fossil was a miracle that only magic could muster.

"Now I've got to tell you," said Donald, raising a palm, "You all did mighty fine to take on those brutes. Big fan of that jelly spell, by the way - textbook Barmy Jim!"

"Can't say we planned it," said Harry with a weak laugh. "To be honest, I wish my Parries were half as good as Duncan's!"

Duncan sniggered. "Come down here, then! Prissy could do with another target."

Smirking at Harry's close-knit brow, Duncan guided his gaze with a finger to the centre of the floor, where slivers of a sturdy bronze ring poked out between the hems of the guests' robes.

Harry's eyes widened. "A duelling ring..."

"Guess you could call this place our war room," said Duncan, puffing out his chest. "We've got mountains of stuff in the back - spellbooks, Remembralls, Murtlap tentacles - the works!"

"And you see all these walls?" said Donald, whisking Harry aside as he pointed to the mirrors. "All Foe-Glasses! Never know who's tryna sabotage the Summer Comps. Why, back in _my _day, you couldn't move for an evil eye! Take ma' fifth year, for instance..."

As the elder Urquhart's tangent veered into an anecdote involving himself, a Spanish duellist and a cocktail laced with Erumpent fluid, Harry felt his ears burn at the call of his name. He soon caught a glimpse of Cedric thrusting a hand in the air, a giddy Susan with a half-empty mug by his side.

_"She's never that excited," _whispered Holly_._

Harry agreed. He politely made his leave to the Urquharts, squeezing through three separate circles of revelry to reach his teammates.

"Where're the drinks, then?" he said, jogging up to Cedric.

Susan giggled, her cream-coloured beverage sloshing around at the sides as she shoved it under Harry's nose. It smelled divine.

"Want some?" she said, quickly snapping "_Nnn-o_!" before Harry could lift a finger. She giggled some more.

"Maybe it's best I don't," said Harry under his breath, turning back to a chuckling Cedric. "This room's something else, isn't it? When do we get to key our wands to that, er... cabinet?"

"The Vanishing Cabinets? Don't have to," replied Cedric, sniffing. "That's what the initiation was for."

Harry arched an eyebrow, and Cedric grinned.

"Cheeky bit of Theurgy, eh?"

Harry hoped that it was a joke. Even if he did prefer Madam Pope's lessons to Professor Veness' treatments in tree worship, he had yet to perform an oblation without something fizzling halfway through. Were he asked to participate in an initiation later down the line, there was no guarantee that the Cabinet would _literally _Vanish some poor second-year.

The sound of shattering glass and a shrill laugh punctured the pause; Harry's conscience called for a cease-fire as every head in the room swerved inward.

"Pardon me!" cried a mirthful, almost child-like voice. Harry's brow climbed an inch as he recognised its owner.

_"She really looks like Yaxley, doesn't she?"_

_That's because she _is _Yaxley, _thought Harry as he stared at the pale, slender witch whose wand still teetered above a lonely glass stem. _Bellatrix Yaxley._

For all the sentiments of fear that she inspired throughout the Castle, there remained the quiet consensus that Priscilla Yaxley was an exceptionally pretty witch. Her mother was no exception, but the dreaded "Sickle Bella" cut a figure in stark contrast to her usual magazine covers. Her dark eyes gleamed with playful mischief instead of feral hunger, and she shed her infamous wraith-like robes for a velvet, forest-green gown.

Harry might have dared to call her approachable.

"It looks as if I have your attention," Bellatrix half-sang, beaming. The crowd laughed, and she drew the glass stem to chest level. "And by the will of the Wild, I'm blessed to be here. To the Founders Four!"

"Aye!" rumbled the crowd, several glasses clinking before they were thrown back in a collective gulp.

"It is quite the shame that we all couldn't make it," said Bellatrix, her smile sobered by a fleeting grimace, "but I've spoken with Madam Pomfrey, and the mardy hag- _ahem - _my _darling_ daughter will be as right as rain in no time at all!"

The response was a tad more reserved the second time around, although there were muffled snorts and giggles abound. Despite his joining in, Harry was unnerved by the slight. Yaxley was worlds away from pleasant, but for her mother to acknowledge that while she was lying in the Hospital Wing left his mouth somewhat stale.

If that wasn't enough, her own high-pitched cackle further sharpened the aftertaste.

"You fought admirably tonight, Hogwarts!" said Bellatrix, pausing as she dipped her head to the side. "Ah... not 'fought'... but _performed_! And with dignity and showmanship. You drew tonight not because you fell short, rather due to your many virtues. Never mind the fact that our Ministry deems you all to be too good, which has absolutely nothing to do with their quotas for Wimbourne and all such trash to fill their Patrol School!"

"Here, here!" rasped an elderly witch - Professor Bagshot, Harry believed - behind him.

Bellatrix bared her teeth, raising her glass stem once more. "As always, dear Madam! It really is beyond time that we oust those parchment-scratchers from our beloved comps, but that's a story for another rally, I think. Tonight, we will celebrate and honour our peers, because who else will? First toasts _must_ go to our coaches, of course- "

A roar of praise and chants filled the room as Bellatrix beckoned Professors Toothill and Merrythought over with a fluttering hand. A flush-faced Flitwick, meanwhile, clung tightly to a murky brown bottle as a wave of hands carried him towards the duelling ring.

"Indispensable, no doubt! To our coaches, Madams and Wizards!"

"Aye!"

Glasses flew to the ceiling. Susan's arm, however, gave way - tipping the remainder of her Butterbeer all over Harry.

She hiccoughed. "Good, iznit?" she said with a snort.

"_Scourgify," _grumbled Harry, sneering at Susan. "Good to know you're over the Cabinet, then."

Susan folded her arms. "_Not_ funny, Po'er."

"Mm... who next?" said Bellatrix, tapping her wand against her lip. "Ooh! We mustn't forget how our lovely Baron Junior's sense of humour won the last match. To Team Foxtrot and he!"

"Aye!"

"_Aww_ \- they love us!" cooed Susan, snaking her arms around Harry and Cedric's neck and side respectively.

"I'm blaming you for this," hissed Harry to Cedric, who proceeded to ruffle his hair.

"A big one for Team Bravo's whitewash," cried Bellatrix, "then two more for Miss Whisp and the fiercest Stinging Hex we've ever seen in the Cup!"

"AYE! _Aye, aye!"_

"And last, but never _ever _least, to my dearest love in another life: the esteemed Professor Snape. Come hither, Chiefy-poo!"

_"Chiefy-poo?" _squawked Holly.

* * *

Long after Cedric and Susan had left, the festive spirit began to wane, and with it Harry's surprise that Snape of all people presided as "Chief" of the Squad. Beaming at the potioneer as he declined the fiftieth mug of mead shoved under his nostriled hook, Harry was assured that all was right with the world.

The Squad would win this year. He would _not _make a fool of himself.

And, no matter what, Snape would always be a miserable wizard. A funny one, but miserable nonetheless.

"I r'member when we first gave Sevvie the post," trilled Merrythought, eyes alight as she hooked a wine-wielding wrist around the Professor's neck. "He said... _'Is in mandel... man... mandatory?' _Of course it was, y'daft twit! You're the bloody Dark Arts Consultant!"

"I - _hic -_ always wondered, in fact," said Flitwick airily, peering into his goblet as if to divine the past, "why you nev-_ hic -_ thought to pledge as a student. Not a sharper brain comes to mind..."

A thunderous laugh alerted Harry to a stout, purple-faced witch next to Professor Toothill, whose twisted smile poked out from behind her glass.

"Pull the other one, Professor," the witch boomed, winking at Flitwick as she elbowed Toothill. "One diva was more than enough, I reckon!"

Flitwick frowned. "And whom could you possibly be referring to, Merida?"

The witch gave Harry a lingering look, then sniggered into Toothill's shoulder.

"Mr Potter," gasped Flitwick, spilling his goblet as he moved to adjust his glasses."What in - _hic - _are you still doing down here?"

"Plotting to poach a bottle or two for his little friends, no doubt," muttered Snape, his upper lip twitching at a peal of laughter from Yaxley's mother. "Run along, little Baron. You've a practice paper coming up, if I'm not mistaken."

Too bewildered to bother arguing that half of the Squad were still swigging Firewhisky with no end in sight, Harry rolled his eyes and took a silent bow. Huffing as he slammed the Vanishing Cabinet's doors behind him, he felt a twinge at his side.

_"Do you think she meant... ?"_

_Obviously._

Kicking the doors apart as the Cabinet ceased its tremor, Harry sat back in open-mouthed amazement.

He was back in Gryffindor Tower.

_"What bones could she have to pick with these things?" _breathed Holly as he climbed out. Harry choked back a laugh.

The mystery behind the Cabinet's workings was tempting to entertain, but Harry was plagued by another intrusive thought as he crawled through the Dragon's Head. He knew well that his father could be a little arrogant, having suffered so under the Grimoire's tutelage, but a _diva?_

Scaling the boys' staircase with every intention of stabbing the snarky tome for an anecdote, Harry's heart almost leapt through his throat as a pyjama-clad Ron sprung out from the doorway.

His face fell somewhat. "Oh... ha. Sorry. Thought you were Nev."

"Glad you missed me," whispered Harry, looking at Ron askance as he trudged past. "Been there all night, have you?"

Ron grimaced. "Well - I mean, you're always off out doing whatever wherever, right?"

_For your sake and mine, _thought Harry as he held his tongue.

"How was it tonight?" asked Ron.

Harry flashed him a grin. "Drew overall. Won our match, watched Bones get pissed. You?"

"Usual," said Ron, shrugging as he ambled towards his own bed. He let out a seething laugh. "Well, I say that. Owe Seamus a Galleon now, so I'll have to ask my Mum to up the pocket money."

Harry raised an eyebrow as he kicked off his boots. "Snap, I'm guessing?"

Ron was too good at chess to let that happen on a bad day.

"Nah, mate," he replied, puffing. "Just a bet. On Neville as well."

"Neville?"

"Now he's on the team," said Ron, splaying his arms as he flopped onto his bed, "Seamus reckons it'll make him look... better. In front of girls and that, you know?"

"Not really," said Harry. "Go on?"

Ron sat up, cocking his head. "So the Third Seven had a practice today - all the girls were there. Lavender, Parvati, my _sister- _"

"For Fay," finished Harry, rolling his eyes.

"Anyway," said Ron, waving a hand, "when they're all done, Ginny says she saw him leave with Hannah."

"Abbott?"

Ron looked at him as if he'd sprouted dragon wings. "Who else?"

"Okay," said Harry after a moment, scrunching his face as he reached for his trunk. "So what?"

"So _what?" _blustered Ron, flailing his arms. "He hasn't been back since!"

Harry froze, his hand hovering over the latch as he turned to meet Ron's eyes.

"Are you serious?" he said.

Ron nodded eagerly.

"Come on," said Harry, shaking his head. "They wouldn't! Neville gets squeamish around Flobberworm guts, let alone... whatever _that _leads to..."

Ron shuddered. "Yeah... you're right. Guess the rumours about you and Hermione are bunk and all."

"You what?"

* * *

_"... and in Blackheath, where eight infant witches and wizards were burned at the stake following the capture of their tutor, Zipporah Bluebottle by..."_

_"While the recent lack of true Seers is often attributed to penalties levied according to Pentateuch doctrine..."_

_"... that a Muggle is no mere man afflicted with the drought of magic, but an odiously alien entity living in fundamental opposition..."_

Every page turned chilled to the touch. Her stomach pleaded with her to heave.

And yet, she felt compelled to read on.

_"No one is certain of precisely when the cleverest of Muggles managed to conquer the Bolts of Jove, but the turn of the twentieth century saw an explosion in the development of gargantuan, grotesque-looking artifices commanded not by sigils, but crudely powered by lightning itself. A similar mushrooming effect was observed in the global population of Muggles, evidenced both by their increased rate of settlement and volume of waste._

_Muggle scholars previously devised an apology for lightning in the eighteenth century: the concept of _**electricity** _in relation to the cosmos maintains that lightning is fundamental to most natural and life processes. This admittedly terrifying force of nature became, in short, an approximation to all magic._

_Despite their insistence on the permeation of Jovian powers, the vast majority of Muggle weaponry demonstrates the reverse of these claims, exhibiting incendiary instead of fulminatory properties. Nevertheless, problems for magical and non-magical communities alike persist where Jovian _**power-stations**_ are erected in close proximity to highly enchanted dwellings. Resultant _**mawbursts**_ have contributed to increasing tension between the ICW and Muggle United Nations- "_

"Late night, Granger?"

Hermione screamed, fumbling over her rickety seat as she levelled her wandlight at the intruder. A pair of startled hazel eyes were glued to the length of vine.

_Clearwater._

"Sorry," mumbled Hermione, dropping her gaze to the floor as she returned her wand to the desk.

Clearwater simply chuckled, pinched Hermione's nose and leaned into the crafting table with an elegant twirl. With a subdued growl, Hermione rubbed the back of her hand over her face.

"I have a slip from Mr Watts, before you ask," she said, crossing her arms.

Clearwater hummed. "I know," she said blithely, yawning into her palm. "A little Jobberknoll told me."

_Lisa, probably,_ thought Hermione with a moan.

"So..." she started, laying a cautious eye over the Prefect's roaming hands, "you'll leave me alone?"

"Nope."

Clearwater's arm glided through the air to pluck a book from the top of Hermione's haphazard pile.

" _'The Problem Of Frailty: Why Muggledom is a Curse'. _Phwoar... that's pretty hardcore."

"It's not what it looks like," babbled Hermione, heart pounding as she dove for the desk's con tents, but Clearwater's survey had already commenced.

" _'Trial By Fire'_,_ 'Thieves Of Jove'_,_ 'Muggles: Mad or Mean?' ... _wait a minute. Is that a copy of _'Blue Lamia?' _Granger, you _raunchy _little thing- "

"Stop!" yelled Hermione, grinding her heels into the flagstone. Her eyes bulged at the screeching sound which followed, her face hitting the floor before she could register the chair's collapse.

Clearwater didn't laugh at Hermione's bloodied nose and pride, but that mattered little.

"Just," spat Hermione, blinking back a tear, "please leave me alone. _Please?_"

Clearwater knelt in front of her, sighing deeply. "Let me see it. _Tergeo... _good, not broken._ Allevo."_

A tingling sheet of heat washed over Hermione's face, and the aching vanished as instantly as the blood before it.

Clearwater smiled. "Better?"

Hermione averted her gaze as something clawed at her gut. She began to sob.

_I _hate _magic._

* * *

"It's been some time, Albus."

"That it has, friend. A shame."

It was a rare treat for Albus to venture into Diagon Alley. To consort with the likes of Igor Karkaroff - a ghost in all but flesh - made for an even sweeter experience.

Or bitter, depending on one's interpretation.

"No matter how much time we might spend apart," mused the black-bearded wizard as he sliced through a cut of turkey, "the Malaclaw Club's elves shall forever claim my heart... this turkey cuts like _butter._"

"I'll be sure to thank Algie for the reservation. It's his membership, after all," replied Albus, tearing his eyes away from the mushrooms hopping on his plate. "How is Moscow, Igor?"

Igor eyed him for a time.

"How is London?" he asked, slowly setting down his turkey-speared fork.

"I haven't a clue," said Albus, chuckling. Igor stared at him again; it wasn't long before he joined with a hearty laugh of his own.

"I read Wizard Doge's op-ed," said Igor, bringing his hands together, "the one about Gryffindor's sword. Would you believe that I've a goblin friend who agrees with him?"

Albus took a deep breath, smiling plaintively. "The question of ownership is one left best to the Wild, I would think... greater wizards than I have wasted away over lesser mysteries."

Igor scoffed.

"I find it difficult to fathom the existence of a wizard who could surpass the great Sir Albus Dumbledore."

"You're sure?" Albus leaned into his chair. "Find faith, Igor, for you just might know one."

Igor sniffed at that, but Albus didn't miss the passing gleam in his eyes: he understood.

"So you've kept abreast of our news, then?" said Albus airily, reaching for his glass of blue wine.

"I know of few wizards who don't," replied Igor matter-of-factly. "It rings home for many of us - Madam Polzin's cousin was caught up in a Bundimun attack the other day. Serious acid burns to the thigh if I've remembered correctly."

"I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate, here," said Albus, eyes straying back to his plate. If Gellert loathed any wizard with more enthusiasm than he had for the British, the Russians would undoubtedly qualify. "But your enchantments are strong. The Trishula will tire."

"I would hope so," said Igor, a faint sneer creeping over his lips before he swallowed another bite. "They gloat. Everywhere they go, they gloat."

"The High Warlock's penchant for self-indulgent rhetoric was always impressive."

"I make no light of it, Albus," said Igor, dabbing at his mouth. "Those agitators - it's _your_ name they cry in the streets: 'Dumbledore, the traitors' shepherd!', 'Wizard of no wit', I've even heard. They take full responsibility for the English attacks this past year."

"Passion is often a fruit of the foolish, Igor," replied Albus, sitting up straight. "They do not speak for Grindelwald."

Igor shrugged. "Perhaps not," he said slowly, intertwining his fingers as he leaned forward, "but what will come next? York? Hogwarts?"

He made to open his mouth, but Albus bristled as an icy stake struck his chest.

_The Hollow... _

Maybe not under siege, but infiltrated... The intruder's presence remained as a frigid thread, binding his pulse tighter by the second. He found nothing of importance during his last visit, but the Albatross didn't know that.

Moreover, the Keys could only protect so much...

"Albus?" Igor's brow furrowed. "Are you well?"

Albus schooled his features, clearing his throat as he promptly rose to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Igor," he said, glancing at his watch. "The Floo is free, as is the draught mead. Until next time."

* * *

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

**Author's note: **So... that took a good minute. Long story short, I suck and you guys rock. Sorry it took so long! As always, thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, PM-ing and all that good stuff. The fic clocked in 100,000 views since the last update: I'm glad that there's someone out there who digs this. :) Thanks again - 'til next time!


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